Nyumbani Tales

by Charles R. Saunders

  Sundiata wept openly as he heard the agony in his brother’s voice. He himself, had he been awakened by blood rather than Kiemba’s tears, might had stood in Oshahar’s place at the head of an army of men turned into beasts. As Sundiata wept, he knew that beneath the bone mask of his helmet, Oshahar’s face also ran wet with tears ... tears the color of blood.

  You are not cursed, my brother, Sundiata comforted, his voice penetrating the whirlpool of bloodlust in Oshahar’s mind. Your torment can end. There is a way to return to peace. We must take that way, Oshahar, even though it means we must die yet again.

  I know ... what the way is, said Oshahar.

  The giant raised his staff. Then he swung it in a murderous arc, aimed at Sundiata’s head. Sundiata raised his staff to meet the blow. When the staffs clashed, the impact was accompanied by a report as loud as thunder, and a blinding flash of blue-white fire.

  Within the walls of Kotoko, the people covered their ears and turned their faces away from the blast, as Sundiata had warned them to do. But on what would have been a battlefield, the Sao soldiers stared directly into a conflagration that seared deeply into their eyes.

  Abruptly, the blue-white luminescence vanished. The space where Sundiata and Oshahar had stood was empty. The Sao blinked their lids over eyes that now reflected sanity – and blindness.

  The Amir of Kotoko rode out of the open gateway, followed by a mass of mounted soldiers. Amid the horrified cries of the blinded Sao, the men of Kotoko rode, keeping their weapons sheathed.

  “What have we done? What have we done? We cannot see!” the Sao cried.

  The Amir looked at his men. Sundiata had cautioned him that the Kotoko might still seek to slay the Sao despite their sightless condition. For the Sao had devastated the villages and farms surrounding the city, and slain many people. And Kiemba had not been the only woman they had raped. But there was only pity in the Kotoko soldiers’ eyes as they watched the Sao stumble and grope and weep.

  “Men of Sao!” the Amir cried, his voice carrying above the babble. “You are outside the city of Kotoko. You have been led to war against us by one who stole your wits and replaced them with madness. The death of the one who led you has stricken you with blindness. Great wrong has been done here; wrong that will never be righted. But we will return you to Sao, and we will protect you until your children grow strong enough to provide for you. By Sundiata, we swear to do you no harm.”

  The Sao heard ... but their confusion and fear remained overwhelming. The soldiers of Kotoko were like herdsmen, gathering the blinded army and retrieving the Saos’ forgotten weapons. The plain outside Kotoko echoed the sound of thousands of shuffling feet as the Sao departed for their homeland.

  AS THE SUN SANK IN clouds of orange, there was no celebration in Kotoko of their bloodless victory. The city was somber and quiet as the people awaited the return of the soldiers who had escorted the Sao to the boundary of their land. Others would continue into Sao to help the blinded soldiers adjust to their condition.

  Musonkino was one of those who returned from escort duty. He rode immediately to the house of Otunji. He wished only to see Kiemba. He was certain he could reclaim her love, for Sundiata was forever lost to her now.

  He dismounted and entered the house of the drum-maker. He found Otunji and his wife sitting disconsolately beside Kiemba’s empty bed.

  “Where is Kiemba?” the soldier demanded.

  “She is gone,” her father replied sadly.

  “‘Gone?’ Gone where?”

  “She has gone to Sundiata,” Sahia said.

  Musonkino turned and rushed out of a house of lost love and shattered dreams. He leaped on his horse and thundered out of the city. He followed the route Kiemba had said she had taken to the Cavern of Sundiata. He was certain that was where he would find her.

  Although he was riding and she was undoubtedly on foot, Musonkino did not catch up with her during days and nights of hard riding. Little heed did he pay to the people he passed who were beginning to rebuild their ruined homes and lives.

  Finally, on a moon-washed night, Musonkino reached the narrow hill-trail that led to the cavern. Abandoning his spent mount, the soldier climbed the steep, rocky path. He saw the red splotches that marked Kiemba’s earlier passage along the trail, and he cursed the ghosts of the Sao rapists.

  When he entered the gold-lit chamber in the cavern, Musonkino guessed what he might see there. Still, he entered.

  Two figures rested on the stone dais. Even the gray stone of their substance could not disguise the tenderness in their carved eyes. Slowly, Musonkino trudged to the dais. He leaned his head against the shaft of the spear he carried. Then he began to weep.

  His tears ran down the shaft of his spear. The wet trail almost touched the stone heel of Kiemba’s foot ... then it rolled down to the cavern floor.

  TWO ROGUES

  THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN during the year the Imaro story, “Mji-ya-Wazimu (City of Madness),” was published in Dark Fantasy magazine in 1974. That was Imaro’s first appearance in print. I wasn’t writing only Imaro stories that year, though. I was in the process of developing my alternate-Africa setting, Nyumbani, and I had ideas for stories other than the ones about Imaro. The Imaro stories were pure “sword-and-soul,” i.e., sword-and-sorcery from an African perspective. During the course of my research, I read many African folktales, and some of them inspired me to write folklore-type stories. Although those stories qualify as fantasy, they don’t focus on the relentless action that characterizes sword-and-sorcery – and sword-and-soul.

  “Two Rogues” is the story of a hustle that turns out to be little too smooth for its own good. Although it was written in 1974, “Two Rogues” wasn’t published until 1977, in Weirdbook magazine.

  Upon the Road of Peace, many strange meetings have occurred. This was not unusual, for the Road wandered like a river of stone through the multifarious kingdoms and city-states of the West Coast of Nyumbani. Though the Road of Peace was intended as a trade corridor through the ceaselessly warring western kingdoms, traffic upon it was not immune to the activities of brigands and cutthroats. Despite the severe punishments that awaited them if caught, these rogues persisted in their crimes.

  Two such scoundrels met one hot day on the part of the road that went through the rolling meadows of the kingdom of Kebbi. Neither design nor chance precipitated the encounter; it was to work of Ogokun, the God of Chance, and Kwaku Anansi, the Trickster. Of course, at the time of their meeting, neither of the two was aware that the other was a rogue.

  The one who came from the north was a young man, above average in height, with a lean, muscular body naked except for the white kakun-cloth that girded his lean loins. Sweat glistened on his jet-black skin as he hefted the large bale of blue cloth he was carrying on his back. A flared, conical straw hat covered his short, closely kinked black hair and shaded his face from the fierce sun of the dry season.

  He had a tough, competent-looking face with narrow brown eyes, a flat, flaring nose and a wide, fully everted mouth, with the characteristic western “v” in the upper lip. The three vertical scars incised precisely on each broad cheekbone identified the wayfarer as a citizen of Kanou, a prosperous northern kingdom. The only indication of that prosperity on this one’s person, however, was the finely wrought iron sword that rustled against the intricate folds of his kakun as he walked.

  From the south came one who was markedly different in appearance. Short and stocky, he looked to be in late middle age – though he bore his years well. He was elaborately garbed in a multicolored, vividly patterned dansiki, and thin trousers of the same pattern. Upon his gray-shot kinky hair sat a round skullcap of red velvet. His skin was as black as a panther’s, and his broad, expansive features were dominated by shrewd black eyes.

  The single horizontal bars carved halfway between his ears and the corners of his mouth indicated that this one was a man of Ifeti, an ancient center of bronze-casters and sorcerers. It appeared that whatever his vocati
on, the well-dressed man was successful. He was leading a fat duku – a pygmy breed of hippopotamus used as a pack-beast by the people of the West Coast. The duku’s burden was two large baskets filled to the brim with cowrie shells, the currency common to the region.

  When the two travelers met, it was the dan-Ifeti who spoke first.

  “Greetings, young sir,” he said pleasantly. “I am Ewuebe dan-Ifeti, and I am bound for the great market at Gobar to purchase some fine adinkra cloth.”

  The younger man returned the greeting courteously.

  “I am Akuntali dan-Kanou,” he said. “I am bound for Yauri, where I have heard there is a good market for the cloth I bear.”

  “And the nature of your cloth?” Ewuebe inquired.

  “Adinkra,” Akuntali replied.

  What followed was not surprising. Having given the names of their respective cities and ascertained that diplomatic relations between the two were normal, the two rogues proceeded to bargain. After a lengthy period of haggling, Akuntali finally agreed to sell his bale of cloth for one of Ewuebe’s baskets of cowries. After the trade was completed, the wayfarers parted amicably, each chuckling secretly at the gullibility of the other.

  After having traveled only a short distance, Ewuebe pulled his duku to the side of the Road and unwrapped his newly acquired bale of blue cloth. To his consternation and dismay, he quickly discovered that even though the wrapping was indeed adinkra, the cloth inside was not. It was only cleverly disguised bark-cloth, which could be found in any rural village.

  For several moments, the dan-Ifeti vociferously berated his own uncustomary credulity. Looking up at its master, the duku opened its large mouth, revealing teeth that were formidable weapons, though much smaller than the tusks of its huge river cousins. But the braying roar that issued from that red cavern was not at all menacing. Instead, it sounded very much like human laughter.

  Then Ewuebe also began to chuckle. Knowing what the cowrie shells he had used to purchase the false adinkra really were, he had no doubt that the dan-Kano would shortly be coming this way again. He tossed a kola nut into the duku’s gaping mouth and settled down for what promised to be a short wait.

  In the meantime, Akuntali had begun to notice something peculiar about the load of cowries he was carrying. Namely, it was growing progressively heavier. In fact, it was now far heavier than any load of cowries that size had a right to be. Puzzled, he unslung the basket and lowered it to the ground to examine its contents. And he was shocked to discover that instead of cowries, the basket was filled with rocks.

  Akuntali cursed his stupidity both to himself and to Kwaku Anansi. Fooled like an idiot by the wiles of a sorcerer! Then again, he should have expected such chicanery from a dan-Ifeti. Only now did Akuntali recall that Ewuebe’s duku had been laboring with a difficulty unusual for a load as light as cowrie shells.

  Hand closed menacingly on the hilt of his sword, the young dan-Kanou turned and retraced his route in heated pursuit of Ewuebe. Though he knew he could not cut the dan-Ifeti’s throat on the Road of Peace, sooner or later, Ewuebe would have to leave the Road ...

  Only a short time passed before Akuntali reached Ewuebe. He was surprised to find the older man waiting for him ... waiting rather leisurely, as a matter of fact. Sitting on the high stone curb of the Road, Ewuebe was abstractedly chewing kola nuts, while his duku was happily joining a herd of cattle munching grass in the meadow beyond.

  “Well, it certainly didn’t take you long to get here,” Ewuebe said affably.

  Akuntali wanted to kill him then and there. But a half-naked herd-boy was tending the cattle, and would surely betray him to the Road Council. Instead, Akuntali unleashed a tirade of choice expletives, ending with: “You, dan-Ifeti, are a scoundrel!”

  “And you, dan-Kanou, are another,” Ewuebe retorted.

  Abruptly, Akuntali remembered the disguised bark-cloth. His heavy-lipped mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

  “It seems that our respective swindles have backfired,” Ewuebe continued.

  The only thing left for Akuntali to do was to burst into laughter – in which he was enthusiastically joined by Ewuebe.

  “Have a seat, my friend,” Ewuebe gasped when the laughter was done. “And have some kola nuts. I have a feeling there is much for us to discuss, you and I.”

  SPEAKING MORE – IF not completely – truthfully this time, the two rogues learned much of interest about each other.

  Akuntali was a man who, in only twenty-odd rains, had fought in five major wars for his home kingdom of Kanou: two against archrival Katsinu, and one each against Gobar, Kwahu and Zazzan. Tiring of risking his life for political conflicts that were traditional to his kingdom but meaningless to him, Akuntali decided to give up military life and live by his wits. Thus far, he had not achieved noteworthy success at his new vocation.

  Ewuebe, on the other hand, had been a life-long sorcerer, trained since childhood for the first of the two major professions of Ifeti, the other being bronze-casting. He had, so he said, achieved only middling proficiency in his profession, boasting moderate skills in the arts of illusion-casting and potion-mixing. Such modest attainments proved insufficient to earn an adequate living in Ifeti, so Ewuebe had become a wanderer, plying both sorcery and thievery up and down the teeming West Coast.

  As Ewuebe finished his tale, the duku waddled over to them and opened its great, wide mouth. Ewuebe accommodated by tossing a handful of kolas into the yawning red cave.

  “Still like the kolas, don’t you, Ikuu?” Ewuebe commented jovially.

  To Akuntali’s astonishment, the beast nodded its head in what could only be agreement.

  Now, this was rather extraordinary behavior for a duku, a creature whose appetite was far more impressive than its intellect. Noticing Akuntali’s curiosity, Ewuebe was quick to explain.

  “Ikuu is the brother of my sister’s husband,” the sorcerer said. “He, too, was once a student of the sorcerous arts. Unfortunately, Ikuu’s talents were more suitable for casting bronze than casting spells. When he attempted the art of shape-changing, he assumed this duku form. Sadly, he was unable to resume his human identity.

  “Under Mage Law, any student who commits such an unseemly blunder must remain in animal form for a designated period of time. The one who is charged with the care of Ikuu, and the honor of eventually returning him to his rightful form is, of course, myself.”

  “How long has he been this way?” Akuntali asked.

  “Ten rains,” Ewuebe replied. Noting the shocked look on the dan-Kano’s face, he added: “Does that seem overly harsh? Perhaps it is, but stiff punishment for failure is the only way to keep incompetents out of the wizards’ profession. Ikuu’s penance is nearly done, and he has served me well.”

  The duku nodded vigorously, and ambled back to the meadow to consume more of the lush tropical grasses.

  “Now,” Ewuebe said portentously, “I have a proposition for you. Two such clever rogues as ourselves should be able to do twice as well working together as we have thus far done alone. I have been listening to the news of the Talking Drums, and it seems that a singularly rich caravan of Dyula merchants will be coming this way in about one month’s time. For years, my greatest ambition has been the looting of a caravan of those greedy Dyula. With a strong young ally like yourself at my side, my dream can become reality!”

  A low whistle passed through Akuntali’s teeth. The Dyula were an international merchants’ guild that controlled most of the commerce of the West Coast, with extensive interests among the Sahanic nations and the Forest Kingdoms as well. Their numerous caravans were well-guarded by mercenaries from Ashonti, a blood-thirsty Forest Kingdom south of the Gulf of Otongi.

  If the plunder of such a caravan was what Ewuebe had in mind, then the dan-Ifeti must be more than he seemed. And if Ewuebe was more than a “middling” sorcerer, for what purpose would he require the aid of a second-rate scoundrel such as Akuntali? Such were the thoughts that rushed through the dan-Kanou’s
mind.

  “You aim high,” was all Akuntali said.

  “Yes!” Ewuebe hissed vehemently, his dark eyes aglow with fervor. His face showed an intensity that took Akuntali aback. Then the dan-Ifeti’s face relaxed into its usual ironic expression.

  “I know what you must be thinking,” he said. “As I told you before, my sorcerous skills are limited. And I am no longer a young man. I need a partner in this venture – a man of strong thews and quick mind who is willing to risk his life for enough wealth to live like the Oba of Benan! Join my venture, and half the loot will be yours. Are you in?”

  For about half a second, Akuntali deliberated. For the wealth of an Oba, he would risk just about anything ...

  “I’m in,” he said.

  “Excellent!” cried the dan-Ifeti, his face split from ear-to-ear by the combination of his grin and his horizontal face-marks. “I knew you had the look of an enterprising young man when I first laid eyes on you.”

  Or, perhaps, a fool, thought Akuntali.

  “Just how do you propose to raid a Dyula caravan?” he asked, keeping his suspicions to himself.

  “Ah, that is a tale that will be repeated in banana-beer halls for years to come,” Ewuebe said enthusiastically. “Lean closer and listen ... and have some more kola nuts.”

  When Ewuebe at last finished talking, the sun was hanging low in the sky. The herd-boy was driving his cattle back to his village, for the rumbling roars of awakening lions could be heard in the distance. And the grin on Akuntali’s face was as broad as Ewuebe’s.