by Marlon James
TEN
The witch was right. I turned off into the bush before I got to the path. The horse pulled up. I rubbed his neck. We stepped through the bush. I thought there would be cool mist but wet heat swept in and pushed sweat out of my skin. White flowers opened and closed. Trees stretched far into sky with foreign plants bursting out of the trunks. Some vines hung loose, others swung back up into the trees, where leaves blocked most of the sky, and the sky that could be seen already looked like night. Nothing swung or swayed, but sounds bounced in the bush. Water drizzled on me, but was too warm to be rain. Off in the distance three elephants blared and startled the horse. You could never trust the animals in the Darklands.
Above me a woodpecker pecked slow, tapping out a message above the beat and under it. Men walk through the bush. Men walking through the bush. Men they walk now through the bush.
Above me swung ten and nine monkeys, quiet, not meaning harm, curious perhaps. But they followed us. The elephants blared again. I did not notice we were on the path until they were right in front of us. An army. They blared, they swung their trunks, they raised and stomped, then charged at us. They stomped louder than thunder but the ground did not shake. I leaned into the horse’s neck and covered her eyes. This startled her again, made her shift, but the elephants would have been worse. They passed beside us and right through us. The ghosts of elephants—or the memory of elephants, or somewhere a god dreaming of elephants. You could never tell in the Darklands what was flesh and what was spirit. Above us was total night but light came through the leaves as if from small moons. Farther off on the left, in what looked like cleared bush but was not, apes stood, three or four in front, pushing away large leaves. Five in the clearing hit with light. More stood behind, some jumping down from branches. One of the apes opened his mouth, bared his flesh-tearing teeth, long and sharp, two atop and two at the bottom. I never learned the tongue of apes, but I knew if I stopped they would charge us and run away, then charge us again, closer and closer each time until they grabbed me and the horse, beating us both to death. Not the ghosts of apes or the dream of apes, but real apes, who liked living among the dead. My head brushed some leaves and they opened up to reveal bunches of berries bold and bloodlike. Eat just one and I would sleep for a quartermoon. Eat three more and I would never wake up. This god-forgotten forest where even the living things played with death and sleep. Above, more birds cawed and cackled and trilled and yapped, and mimicked and screeched and screamed. Running past us, two giraffes as small as house cats, running from a warthog as big as a rhinoceros.
I should not have come here. No you should not have, a voice said inside and outside my head. I did not look around. Whatever you are looking for in the Darklands, you will always find it. In front of me hung threads of thin silk, hundred and tens of hundreds reaching the ground.
A little closer and I saw it was not silk. Above me, sleeping upside down like bats, were creatures I have never seen, small like ghommids and black like them, but hanging upside down, their feet claws clutching branches. The silk came from their gaping mouths. Drool. Thick enough for my knife to cut them away as I rode through. Truth, there were swarms of them, hanging from every tree. As I passed one hanging low his eyes popped open. White, then yellow, then red, then black.
It was time to leave the trail anyway, and my horse was thirsty. Leave now or stay, a voice said, soft inside my head. The pond, as she drank, became clear as day. When I looked up in the sky it was still night. I pulled her away from the water. The blue in it did not mirror sky. This was the air from somewhere else, and not a kingdom underwater, which I would have sensed. This was a mirror to a dream, a place where I was the dream. I crouched and leaned so far I almost fell in. A floor in patterns like stars, white and black and green shiny stones, pillars rising out of the floor and so tall they went beyond the pond. A great hall, a hall for a man of great wealth, more wealth than chief or prince. I saw what glimmered like stars. Gold trim in the floor grout, gold swirling around the pillars, gold leaves in the drapes swaying in the wind.
A man entered the room, his hair short and red like a berry. The man wore a black agbada that swept the floor and a cape that woke up the wind. It was gone before I could see it full, black wings that appeared on his back and then vanished. He looked up, as if he saw something behind me. He started to walk towards me. Then he looked straight at my face, eye into eye. His robes spread wide like the wings before, and his look turned into a stare. He shouted something I could not hear, seized a guard’s spear, and stepped back, ready to hurl it. I jumped back from the pond and fell on my back.
And now the Leopard’s words walked through my head: The only way forward is through. But it was not the Leopard’s voice. I turned east. At least my heart told me it was east; there was no way I could know. East was getting darker, but I could still see. My last time in the Darklands that spirit announced himself clear, like the killer with the victim bound who says what he will do as he does it. The forest was too thick, the branches hanging too low for me to stay on the horse, so I jumped down and walked her. I smelled their burn stink before I heard them, and I knew they were following me.
“Neither him nor the big one fit, we say.”
“A piece of the big one? A piece is a pass.”
“He going run she going run, they all going run, we say.”
“Not if we make them go through the dead brook. Bad air riding the night wind. Bad air straight through the nose.”
“He he he he. But what we do with the what left? Eat we fill and leave them still, and they going spoil and rot and vultures going glut, till they fat and when hunger come for we again the meat going gone.”
These two had forgotten that I had met them before. Ewele, red and hairy, whose black eyes were small as seeds, and who hopped like a frog. The loud one, bursting with rage and wickedness, and so much plotting that would come to something were he not as smart as a stunned goat. Egbere, the quiet one, raised no more than a whimper, crying over all the poor people he ate, for he was so very sorry, he told any god who would listen, until he was again hungry. Then he was more vicious than his cousin. Egbere, blue when the light hit him but black otherwise. Hairless and shiny where his cousin was hairy. Both sounded like jackals growling in a violent fuck. And they fussed, and fought so much that by the time they remembered to eat me, I had rolled out of their trap, a net made from the web of a giant spider.
The Sangoma never taught the spell to me, but I watched her as she did it, and learned every word. Such a waste of time it was to use the spell on them, but I would lose much more waiting on them to plot. I whispered into the sky her incantation. The two little ghommids quarreled still, even as they hopped from branch to branch above me. And then:
“Where he gone? Where he go? Where he went?”
“Whowhowho?”
“Himhimhim! Look look look!”
“Where him gone?”
“So I say already, fool.”
“Him gone.”
“And shit stink and piss rank and fool is fool, just like you.”
“He gone, he gone. But he horse. He still there.”
“He be a she.”
“She who?”
“The horse.”
“The horse, the horse, let we take the horse.”
They hopped down from the tree. Neither carried weapons, but both opened mouths wide as a slit cut from ear to ear, with teeth, long, pointed, and numerous. Egbere charged at the horse to leap for her rump but ran into my kicking feet, my heel smashing his nose. He fell back and screamed.
“Why you kick me, son of a whoring half cat?”
“Me behind you, you fool. How me to kick you in the—”
I swung the hatchet right for Egbere’s forehead and chopped in deep, pulled it out, and chopped into his neck. I swung again and again until his head came off. Ewele screamed and screamed that the wind is killing his brother
, the wind is killing his brother.
“I thought he was your cousin,” I said.
“Who is it, who is demon of sky that killed my brother?”
I know the ghommids. Once upset they are out of control. He would never stop crying.
“You kill my brother!”
“Shut your face. His head will grow back in seven days. Unless it gets infected, then he will just grow back one big ball of pus.”
“Show yourself! I am hungry to kill you.”
“You kill my time, troll.”
You have no time, someone said in my head. I heard him this time. It was a him and he spoke to me like I knew him, with the warmth of an old friend but only in sound, for it felt colder than the lower regions of lands of the dead, which I have been to in a dream. The voice took me out of the spell and Ewele jumped me. He screamed and his mouth opened wide, his sharp teeth grew, he became all mouth and teeth like the great fishes I have seen in the deep sea. And he got stronger as he got madder. My hand pushed him away from my face but his hair was slippery. He snapped and snapped and snapped and flew straight up in the air and vanished. My horse had kicked him away. I mounted her and rode off.
Why did you come back? he said.
“I did not come back. I am passing through.”
Passing through. But you are on the road.
“The horse cannot ride for long in the bush.”
I knew you would.
“Fuck the gods for all you know.”
I knew you would come back.
“Fuck the gods.”
What kind of a story would the griots tell of you? You are no story. A man of use to no one. A man no one depends on, no one trusts. You drift like spirits and devils and even their drift is with purpose.
“Is that all people are? Their purpose? Their use?”
You have no purpose. You are a man loved by no one. When you die, who will grieve you? Your father forgot you before you were even born. They raised you in a house where people murdered memory. What kind of hero are you?
“That what you want? A hero?”
I have word from your father and your brother.
I stopped the horse.
“Are they disappointed again? Do they hang their heads in shame in the underworld? They never seem to change, my father and brother.”
I have word of your sister.
“I have no sister.”
Much has come to pass since you took yourself from your mother’s house.
“I have no sister.”
And she has no brother. But she has a father, who is also her grandfather. And a mother who is also a sister.
“And you say I am the one bringing shame to his family?”
What do you want?
“I want you to either kill me or shut up.”
What kind of man has no quality?
“For a spirit, it staggers me how much you care about what ordinary men think. You talk about purpose like the gods shat it out of a divine ass, then gave it to man as if they would know the difference. I had a purpose, given to me by my blood, my father and my grandfather. I had a purpose and I told them to go fuck themselves with it. You use that word purpose like there is something noble to it, something of the best gods. Purpose is the gods saying what kings say to men they want to rule. Well a thousand rapes for your purpose. You want to know what’s my purpose? To kill the men who killed my brother and father, leaving a grandfather fucking my own mother. To kill the men who killed my brother, because they killed him because he killed one of theirs. Who killed one of his, who killed one of theirs, and on and on while even gods die. My purpose is to avenge my blood so that one day they can come and seek vengeance on me. So no, I don’t want purpose and I don’t want children born in blood. You want to know what I want? I want to kill this bloodline. This sickness. End this poison. My name ends with me.”
I am your—
“You are an Anjonu and you bore me.”
Something like a scream came through the bush. The same leaves brushed past my arms, the same smells slipped past me. I came to a clearing I had just walked through. Trees were deceitful in these parts.
You close your mind the way a furious child closes his fists.
We came upon another clearing, where the grass was low and the air was evening. Or early morning. The Darklands was always dark, but it was never night. Not deep night, never a noon of the dead. In the clearing, built around the base of an assegai tree, stood a hut, plastered in cow dung. Dry, but carrying a fresh stink. Behind the hut, flat on his back with his legs spread wide, was the Ogo.
“Sadogo?”
He was dead.
“Sadogo?”
He was asleep.
“Sadogo.”
He groaned, but still slept.
“Sadogo.”
He groaned again.
“The mad monkey, the mad monkey,” he said.
“Wake up, Sadogo.”
“Not, not, asleep . . . not . . . I do not sleep.”
Truth, I thought this was sleep making him sound mad. Or maybe the worst dream, where he did not know he was asleep.
“The mad monkey . . .”
“The mad monkey, what did he do?”
“The . . . mad . . . the . . . mad . . . he blew bone dust.”
Bone dust. The Anjonu tried to make himself my master with that once, but the Sangoma’s protection was on me, even in this forest. He then studied more wickedness, trying to uncover what the Sangoma’s enchantment did not cover. He says he speaks to your head, even to your spirit, but he is just a lower demon who despises his form and who works an Ogudu spell on whoever is cursed to cross his path. He blows the bone dust and the body goes to sleep, though the mind is awake and in terror.
“Sadogo, can you sit?”
He tried to get up but fell back down. He lifted his chest again and fell back on his elbows. He paused and his head fell back like a sleepy child’s until he snapped himself awake.
“Roll over and push yourself up,” I said.
If bone dust did this to an Ogo, left him drunk, then the other two must be sleeping deeper than the dead. Sadogo tried to push himself up.
“Slow . . . slow . . . great giant.”
“I’m not a giant. I am an Ogo,” he said.
I knew that would rile him. He pushed himself up to a sit, but his head started to swing.
“Giant is what they call you. Giant!”
“Not a giant,” he tried to shout, but his mumble ate the words.
“You are not anything, drooling on the floor.”
He stood up and wobbled so low that he grabbed the tree. We would not make it out of this forest if we had to run. He shook his head. A drunkard he would have to be, then. If anything he could fall on our enemy and that would be no joke.
“The mad monkey . . . bone dust . . . inside . . . put them . . . insi—”
“The others are inside.”
“Huh.”
“Inside the hut?”
“I already said.”
“Don’t get testy with me, giant.”
“Not a giant!”
That made him straighten right up. Then slouch again. I went over and grabbed his arm. He looked down, swung his face around as if the strangest thing had landed on his arm.
“Bone dust is a favorite trick of the Anjonu, but you will be as new in five flips of an hourglass. You must have been under its wickedness for some time now.”
“Bone dust, the mad monkey . . .”
“You keep saying that, Sadogo. The Anjonu is a wicked, ugly spirit, but he is no monkey.”
The thought jumped in my head. The Anjonu likes to torment, but he torments with blood, with family. Why would he bewitch the Ogo, the Leopard, even the boy? The Darklands have the dead, the never born, the sp
irit-like, and those let loose from the underworld. But because I have not seen many, I forgot that it is also infested with every vicious creature born wrong. Worse than the bat men sleeping and drooling.
“Can you fit inside?”
“Yes. I tried to leave before but fell . . . fell . . . fell—”
“It will not be long, Ogo.”
Inside the hut smelled not like cow dung, but like meat saved in salt. Inside the hut, brightness like day came through, but from nowhere, and it lit up one red rug in the center, and a wall of knives, saws, arrowheads, and cutlasses. The Leopard, facedown on the rug, his back covered in spots and the back of his arms bristling fur. Trying to change but the Ogudu gripped too strong. His teeth had grown long and stuck out from his lips. Fumeli lay on his back in the dirt floor. I stooped down beside the Leopard and touched the back of his head.
“Cat, I know you hear me. I know you want to move but cannot.”
I saw him in my mind, trying to move, trying to turn his chin, trying just to move his eye. The Ogo, still wobbling, came through the door and hit his head.
“A dung hut with a door?” he said.
“I know.”
“Behold, anoth . . . nother.”
Another door in line with the first on the other side of the hut. The Ogo leaned too far and stumbled. He braced himself against the wall.
“Who locked this door? Who infested it . . . with so many locks?”
The door looked stolen from the hut of someone else. Locks and bolts went all the way down to one side, from the top of the door right down into the earth.
That is—
“That is what?”
“Wha . . . what is what?”
“Not you, Sadogo.”
“Then wh . . . my head keeps rolling out to sea.”
You know this door.
“Stop speaking to me.”
“I’m not . . . talking to you . . .”
“Not you, Sadogo.”
There are only ten and nine such doors in all the lands, and one in this forest you call the Darklands.
“Sadogo, can you carry the Leopard?”
“Can I—”
