The adults all laughed, and suddenly she looked very uncomfortable, but then I chuckled and hugged her and patted her head, for it was necessary that the children learn to love their mundumugu as well as hold him in awe, and finally she ran off to play and dance with the other girls, while I retired to my boma.
Once inside, I activated my computer and discovered that a message was waiting for me from Maintenance, informing me that one of their number would be visiting me the following morning. I made a very brief reply—“Article II, Paragraph 5,” which is the ordinance forbidding intervention—and lay down on my sleeping blanket, letting the rhythmic chanting of the singers carry me off to sleep.
* * *
I awoke with the sun the next morning and instructed my computer to let me know when the Maintenance ship had landed. Then I inspected my cattle and my goats—I, alone of my people, planted no crops, for the Kikuyu feed their mundumugu, just as they tend his herds and weave his blankets and keep his boma clean—and stopped by Simani’s boma to deliver a balm to fight the disease that was afflicting his joints. Then, as the sun began warming the earth, I returned to my own boma, skirting the pastures where the young men were tending their animals. When I arrived, I knew the ship had landed, for I found the droppings of a hyena on the ground near my hut, and that is the surest sign of a curse.
I learned what I could from the computer, then walked outside and scanned the horizon while two naked children took turns chasing a small dog and running away from it. When they began frightening my chickens, I gently sent them back to their own boma, and then seated myself beside my fire. At last I saw my visitor from Maintenance, coming up the path from Haven. She was obviously uncomfortable in the heat, and she slapped futilely at the flies that circled her head. Her blonde hair was starting to turn gray, and I could tell by the ungainly way she negotiated the steep, rocky path that she was unused to such terrain. She almost lost her balance a number of times, and it was obvious that her proximity to so many animals frightened her, but she never slowed her pace, and within another ten minutes she stood before me.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Jambo, Memsaab,” I replied.
“You are Koriba, are you not?”
I briefly studied the face of my enemy; middle-aged and weary, it did not appear formidable. “I am Koriba,” I replied.
“Good,” she said. “My name is—”
“I know who you are,” I said, for it is best, if conflict cannot be avoided, to take the offensive.
“You do?”
I pulled the bones out of my pouch and cast them on the dirt. “You are Barbara Eaton, born of Earth,” I intoned, studying her reactions as I picked up the bones and cast them again. “You are married to Robert Eaton, and you have worked for Maintenance for nine years.” A final cast of the bones. “You are forty-one years old, and you are barren.”
“How did you know all that?” she asked with an expression of surprise.
“Am I not the mundumugu?”
She stared at me for a long minute. “You read my biography on your computer,” she concluded at last.
“As long as the facts are correct, what difference does it make whether I read them from the bones or the computer?” I responded, refusing to confirm her statement. “Please sit down, Memsaab Eaton.”
She lowered herself awkwardly to the ground, wrinkling her face as she raised a cloud of dust.
“It’s very hot,” she noted uncomfortably.
“It is very hot in Kenya,” I replied.
“You could have created any climate you desired,” she pointed out.
“We did create the climate we desired,” I answered.
“Are there predators out there?” she asked, looking out over the savanna.
“A few,” I replied.
“What kind?”
“Hyenas.”
“Nothing larger?” she asked.
“There is nothing larger anymore,” I said.
“I wonder why they didn’t attack me?”
“Perhaps because you are an intruder,” I suggested.
“Will they leave me alone on my way back to Haven?” she asked nervously, ignoring my comment.
“I will give you a charm to keep them away.”
“I’d prefer an escort.”
“Very well,” I said.
“They’re such ugly animals,” she said with a shudder. “I saw them once when we were monitoring your world.”
“They are very useful animals,” I answered, “for they bring many omens, both good and bad.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “A hyena left me an evil omen this morning.”
“And?” she asked curiously.
“And here you are,” I said.
She laughed. “They told me you were a sharp old man.”
“They are mistaken,” I replied. “I am a feeble old man who sits in front of his boma and watches younger men tend his cattle and goats.”
“You are a feeble old man who graduated with honors from Cambridge and then acquired two postgraduate degrees from Yale,” she replied.
“Who told you that?”
She smiled. “You’re not the only one who reads biographies.”
I shrugged. “My degrees did not help me become a better mundumugu,” I said. “The time was wasted.”
“You keep using that word. What, exactly, is a mundumugu?”
“You would call him a witch doctor,” I answered. “But in truth the mundumugu, while he occasionally casts spells and interprets omens, is more a repository of the collected wisdom and traditions of his race.”
“It sounds like an interesting occupation,” she said.
“It is not without its compensations.”
“And such compensations!” she said with false enthusiasm as a goat bleated in the distance and a young man yelled at it in Swahili. “Imagine having the power of life and death over an entire Eutopian world!”
So now it comes, I thought. Aloud I said: “It is not a matter of exercising power, Memsaab Eaton, but of maintaining traditions.”
“I rather doubt that,” she said bluntly.
“Why should you doubt what I say?” I asked.
“Because if it were traditional to kill newborn infants, the Kikuyu would have died out after a single generation.”
“If the slaying of the infant arouses your disapproval,” I said calmly, “I am surprised Maintenance has not previously asked about our custom of leaving the old and the feeble out for the hyenas.”
“We know that the elderly and the infirm have consented to your treatment of them, much as we may disapprove of it,” she replied. “We also know that a newborn infant could not possibly consent to its own death.” She paused, staring at me. “May I ask why this particular baby was killed?”
“That is why you have come here, is it not?”
“I have been sent here to evaluate the situation,” she replied, brushing an insect from her cheek and shifting her position on the ground. “A newborn child was killed. We would like to know why.”
I shrugged. “It was killed because it was born with a terrible thahu upon it.”
She frowned. “A thahu? What is that?”
“A curse.”
“Do you mean that it was deformed?” she asked.
“It was not deformed.”
“Then what was this curse that you refer to?”
“It was born feetfirst,” I said.
“That’s it?” she asked, surprised. “That’s the curse?”
“Yes.”
“It was murdered simply because it came out feetfirst?”
“It is not murder to put a demon to death,” I explained patiently. “Our tradition tells us that a child born in this manner is actually a demon.”
“You are an educated man, Koriba,” she said. “How can you kill a perfectly healthy infant and blame it on some primitive tradition?”
“You must never underestimate the power of tradition, Memsa
ab Eaton,” I said. “The Kikuyu turned their backs on their traditions once; the result is a mechanized, impoverished, overcrowded country that is no longer populated by Kikuyu, or Masai, or Luo, or Wakamba, but by a new, artificial tribe known only as Kenyans. We here on Kirinyaga are true Kikuyu, and we will not make that mistake again. If the rains are late, a ram must be sacrificed. If a man’s veracity is questioned, he must undergo the ordeal of the githani trial. If an infant is born with a thahu upon it, it must be put to death.”
“Then you intend to continue killing any children that are born feetfirst?” she asked.
“That is correct,” I responded.
A drop of sweat rolled down her face as she looked directly at me and said: “I don’t know what Maintenance’s reaction will be.”
“According to our charter, Maintenance is not permitted to interfere with us,” I reminded her.
“It’s not that simple, Koriba,” she said. “According to your charter, any member of your community who wishes to leave your world is allowed free passage to Haven, from which he or she can board a ship to Earth.” She paused. “Was that baby you killed given such a choice?”
“I did not kill a baby, but a demon,” I replied, turning my head slightly as a hot breeze stirred up the dust around us.
She waited until the breeze died down, then coughed before speaking. “You do understand that not everyone in Maintenance may share that opinion?”
“What Maintenance thinks is of no concern to us,” I said.
“When innocent children are murdered, what Maintenance thinks is of supreme importance to you,” she responded. “I am sure you do not want to defend your practices in the Eutopian Court.”
“Are you here to evaluate the situation, as you said, or to threaten us?” I asked calmly.
“To evaluate the situation,” she replied. “But there seems to be only one conclusion that I can draw from the facts that you have presented to me.”
“Then you have not been listening to me,” I said, briefly closing my eyes as another, stronger, breeze swept past us.
“Koriba, I know that Kirinyaga was created so that you could emulate the ways of your forefathers—but surely you must see the difference between the torture of animals as a religious ritual and the murder of a human baby.”
I shook my head. “They are one and the same,” I replied. “We cannot change our way of life because it makes you uncomfortable. We did that once before, and within a mere handful of years, your culture had corrupted our society. With every factory we built, with every job we created, with every bit of Western technology we accepted, with every Kikuyu who converted to Christianity, we became something we were not meant to be.” I stared directly into her eyes. “I am the mundumugu, entrusted with preserving all that makes us Kikuyu, and I will not allow that to happen again.”
“There are alternatives,” she said.
“Not for the Kikuyu,” I replied adamantly.
“There are,” she insisted, so intent upon what she had to say that she paid no attention to a black-and-gold centipede that crawled over her boot. “For example, years spent in space can cause certain physiological and hormonal changes in humans. You noted when I arrived that I am forty-one years old and childless. That is true. In fact, many of the women in Maintenance are childless. If you will turn the babies over to us, I am sure we can find families for them. This would effectively remove them from your society without the necessity of killing them. I could speak to my superiors about it; I think that there is an excellent chance that they would approve.”
“That is a thoughtful and innovative suggestion, Memsaab Eaton,” I said truthfully. “I am sorry that I must reject it.”
“But why?” she demanded.
“Because the first time we betray our traditions, this world will cease to be Kirinyaga, and will become merely another Kenya, a nation of men awkwardly pretending to be something they are not.”
“I could speak to Koinnage and the other chiefs about it,” she suggested meaningfully.
“They will not disobey my instructions,” I replied confidently.
“You hold that much power?”
“I hold that much respect,” I answered. “A chief may enforce the law, but it is the mundumugu who interprets it.”
“Then let us consider other alternatives.”
“No.”
“I am trying to avoid a conflict between Maintenance and your people,” she said, her voice heavy with frustration. “It seems to me that you could at least make the effort to meet me halfway.”
“I do not question your motives, Memsaab Eaton,” I replied, “but you are an intruder representing an organization that has no legal right to interfere with our culture. We do not impose our religion or our morality upon Maintenance, and Maintenance may not impose its religion or morality upon us.”
“It is not that simple.”
“It is precisely that simple,” I said.
“That is your last word on the subject?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She stood up. “Then I think it is time for me to leave and make my report.”
I stood up as well, and a shift in the wind brought the odors of the village: the scent of bananas, the smell of a fresh caldron of pombe, even the pungent odor of a bull that had been slaughtered that morning.
“As you wish, Memsaab Eaton,” I said. “I will arrange for your escort.” I signaled to a small boy who was tending three goats and instructed him to go to the village and send back two young men.
“Thank you,” she said. “I know it’s an inconvenience, but I just don’t feel safe with hyenas roaming loose out there.”
“You are welcome,” I said. “Perhaps, while we are waiting for the men who will accompany you, you would like to hear a story about the hyena.”
She shuddered involuntarily. “They are such ugly beasts!” she said distastefully. “Their hind legs seem almost deformed.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’d be interested in hearing a story about a hyena.”
“You will be interested in this story,” I told her.
She stared at me curiously and shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“It is true that hyenas are deformed, ugly animals,” I began, “but once, a long time ago, they were as lovely and graceful as the impala. Then one day a Kikuyu chief gave a hyena a young goat to take as a gift to Ngai, who lived atop the holy mountain Kirinyaga. The hyena took the goat between his powerful jaws and headed toward the distant mountain—but on the way he passed a settlement filled with Europeans and Arabs. It abounded in guns and machines and other wonders he had never seen before, and he stopped to look, fascinated. Finally an Arab noticed him staring intently, and asked if her, too, would like to become a civilized man—and as he opened his mouth to say that he would, the goat fell to the ground and ran away. As the goat raced out of sight, the Arab laughed and explained that he was only joking, that of course no hyena could become a man.” I paused for a moment, and then continued. “So the hyena proceeded to Kirinyaga, and when he reached the summit, Ngai asked him what had become of the goat. When the hyena told him, Ngai hurled him off the mountaintop for having the audacity to believe he could become a man. He did not die from the fall, but his rear legs were crippled, and Ngai declared that from that day forward, all hyenas would appear thus—and to remind them of the foolishness of trying to become something that they were not, he also gave them a fool’s laugh.” I paused again, and stared at her. “Memsaab Eaton, you do not hear the Kikuyu laugh like fools, and I will not let them become crippled like the hyena. Do you understand what I am saying?”
She considered my statement for a moment, then looked into my eyes. “I think we understand each other perfectly, Koriba,” she said.
The two young men I had sent for arrived just then, and I instructed them to accompany her to Haven. A moment later they set off across the dry savanna, and I returned to my duties.
I began by walking through
the fields, blessing the scarecrows. Since a number of the smaller children followed me, I rested beneath the trees more often than was necessary, and always, whenever we paused, they begged me to tell them more stories. I told them the tale of the Elephant and the Buffalo, and how the Masai elmoran cut the rainbow with his spear so that it never again came to rest upon the earth, and why the nine Kikuyu tribes are named after Gikuyu’s nine daughters; and when the sun became too hot, I led them back to the village.
Then, in the afternoon, I gathered the older boys about me and explained once more how they must paint their faces and bodies for their forthcoming circumcision ceremony. Ndemi, the boy who had insisted upon a story about Kirinyaga the night before, sought me out privately to complain that he had been unable to slay a small gazelle with his spear, and asked for a charm to make its flight more accurate. I explained to him that there would come a day when he faced a buffalo or a hyena with no charm, and that he must practice more before he came to me again. He was one to watch, this little Ndemi, for he was impetuous and totally without fear; in the old days, he would have made a great warrior, but on Kirinyaga we had no warriors. If we remained fruitful and fecund, however, we would someday need more chiefs and even another mundumugu, and I made up my mind to observe him closely.
In the evening, after I ate my solitary meal, I returned to the village, for Njogu, one of our young men, was to marry Kamiri, a girl from the next village. The bride-price had been decided upon, and the two families were waiting for me to preside at the ceremony.
Njogu, his face streaked with paint, wore an ostrich-feather headdress, and looked very uneasy as he and his betrothed stood before me. I slit the throat of a fat ram that Kamiri’s father had brought for the occasion, and then I turned to Njogu.
“What have you to say?” I asked.
He took a step forward. “I want Kamiri to come and till the fields of my shamba,” he said, his voice cracking with nervousness as he spoke the prescribed words, “for I am a man, and I need a woman to tend to my shamba and dig deep around the roots of my plantings, that they may grow well and bring prosperity to my house.”
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Sixth Annual Collection Page 24
