by Mike Resnick
“There have been no animals here in more than two decades,” I whispered.
“They seem to have wandered in after the last rains,” he replied softly. “I suppose they must be living off the rodents and birds.”
“How did you find them?”
“I didn’t,” he answered. “A friend of mine in the Game Department told me they were here.” He paused. “They’ll be captured and relocated to a game park sometime next week, before they can do any lasting damage.”
They seemed totally misplaced, hunting in tracks made by huge threshing and harvesting machines, searching for the safety of a savannah that had not existed for more than a century, hiding from cars rather than other predators. I felt a certain kinship to them.
We watched them in total silence for perhaps five minutes. Then Edward checked his timepiece and decided that we had to continue to the spaceport.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked as we drove back onto the road.
“Very much,” I said.
“I had hoped you would.”
“They are being moved to a game park, you said?”
He nodded his head. “A few hundred miles to the north, I believe.”
“The jackal walked this land long before the farmers arrived,” I noted.
“But they are an anachronism,” he replied. “They don’t belong here any more.”
I nodded my head. “It is fitting.”
“That the jackals go to a game park?” he asked.
“That the Kikuyu, who were here before the Kenyans, leave for a new world,” I answered. “For we, too, are an anachronism that no longer belongs here.”
He increased his speed, and soon we had passed through the farming area and entered the outskirts of Nairobi.
“What will do you on Kirinyaga?” he asked, breaking a long silence.
“We shall live as the Kikuyu were meant to live.”
“I mean you, personally.”
I smiled, anticipating his reaction. “I am to be the mundumugu.”
“The witch doctor?” he repeated incredulously.
“That is correct.”
“I can’t believe it!” he continued. “You are an educated man. How can you sit cross-legged in the dirt and roll bones and read omens?”
“The mundumugu is also a teacher, and the custodian of the tribal customs,” I said. “It is an honorable profession.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “So I am to explain to people that my father has become a witch doctor.”
“You need fear no embarrassment,” I said. “You need only tell them that Kirinyaga’s mundumugu is named Koriba.”
“That is my name!”
“A new world requires a new name,” I said. “You cast it aside to take a European name. Now I will take it back and put it to good use.”
“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” he said as we pulled into the spaceport.
“From this day forward, my name is Koriba.”
The car came to a stop.
“I hope you will bring more honor to it than I did, my father,” he said as a final gesture of conciliation.
“You have brought honor to the name you chose,” I said. “That is quite enough for one lifetime.”
“Do you really mean that?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Then why did you never say so before now?”
“Haven’t I?” I asked, surprised.
We got out of the car and he accompanied me to the departure area. Finally he came to a stop.
“This is as far as I am permitted to go.”
“I thank you for the ride,” I said.
He nodded.
“And for the jackals,” I added. “It was truly a perfect morning.”
“I will miss you, my father,” he said.
“I know.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I could think of nothing further to say.
For a moment I thought he was going to place his arms around me and hug me, but instead he reached out, shook my hand, muttered another farewell, and turned on his heel and left.
I thought he would go directly to his car, but when I looked through a porthole of the ship that would take us to Kirinyaga, I saw him standing at a huge, plate-glass window, waving his hand, while his other hand held a handkerchief.
That was the last sight I saw before the ship took off. But the image I held in my mind was the two jackals, watching alien sights on a land that had itself become foreign to them. I hoped that they would adjust to their new life in the game park that had been artificially created for them.
Something told me that I soon would know.
INTRODUCTION TO “THE LOTUS AND THE SPEAR”
Ralph Roberts
Mike Resnick excels in mixing the magic of ancient African lore with the futuristic wizardry of science fiction. Mike writes like a wise old jungle witch doctor—crouching before leaping flames of a fire and holding hungry animals at bay in the dark night beyond the clearing’s edge while industriously grinding and mixing mysterious ingredients into something far more powerful than the roots and essences that go into it.
Think I overstate? Observe the awards he wins and is nominated for. Look at the Hugo and see all the times his name links to it, either as winner or nominee. Is this not magic? Yes, yes—I know—you snap your fingers and say “Ah ha, now I see!”
But do you? Do I? Magic often is less or more than it seems. That’s why it is magic.
This brings us—more logically than we might suppose—to “The Lotus and the Spear.”
Mike begins by recounting an old African parable about an elephant climbing Mount Kenya to seek out Ngai, who “ruled the universe from His golden throne.” What the elephant wants and what he really gets set the tone for the story.
The Kikuyu—a tribe from the country of Kenya on Earth—live now, strictly observing the ancient traditions, on the terraformed world of Kirinyaga. Koriba—the mundumugu (witch doctor) of a village on that world—has a problem. How he solves it and the solution’s result are perhaps not what those asking had expected.
It’s all magic, of course—the kind of magic that Mike Resnick brings to a story.
But don’t just take my word for it: Experience it for yourself.
Frequently in Africa you will see a man, totally unencumbered, walking ahead of his wife, who is doubled over under the weight of the firewood or water she is carrying. Once upon a time it made sense; his job with to scare off any animals that might attack her. But there haven’t been very many animals, and almost no dangerous ones, at roadside in half a century or more. Still, it gives the men something to do besides spend hours decorating themselves.
Kirinyaga, by this 7th story in the series, was starting to crumble at the edges. It’s difficult to live a traditional lifestyle when there is no reason for it. If the 20th Century men could at least pretend they were serving a useful purpose, what about my 22nd Century Kirinyaga men? How do you adapt to a life where there are no goals, no rewards, not even any threats?
So I wrote the story, and it was a 1993 Hugo nominee for Best Short Story.
THE LOTUS AND THE SPEAR
ONCE, MANY EONS AGO, THERE was an elephant who climbed the slopes of Kirinyaga, which men now call Mount Kenya, until he reached the very summit, where Ngai ruled the universe from His golden throne.
“Why have you sought me out?” demanded Ngai.
“I have come to ask you to change me into something else,” answered the elephant.
“I have made you the most powerful of beasts,” said Ngai. “You need fear neither the lion nor the leopard nor the hyena. Wherever you walk, all My other creatures rush to move out of your path. Why do you no longer wish to be an elephant?”
“Because as powerful as I am, there are others of my kind who are more powerful,” answered the elephant. “They keep the females to themselves, so that my seed will die within me, and they drive me away from the water holes and the succul
ent grasses.”
“And what do you wish of me?” asked Ngai.
“I am not sure,” said the elephant. “I would like to be like the giraffe, for there are so many treetops that no matter where he goes he finds sustenance. Or perhaps the warthog, for nowhere can he travel that there are no roots to be found. And the fish eagle takes one mate for life, and if he is not strong enough to defend her against others of his kind who would take her away from him, his vision is so keen that he can see them approaching from great distances and move her to safety. Change me in any way you wish,” he concluded. “I will trust to Your wisdom.”
“So be it,” pronounced Ngai. “From this day forward, you shall have a trunk, so that the delicacies that grow atop the acacia trees will no longer be beyond your reach. And you shall have tusks, that you may dig in the ground for both roots and water no matter where you travel upon My world. And where the fish eagle has but a single superior sense, his vision, I shall give you two senses, those of smell and hearing, that will be greater than any other animal in My kingdom.”
“How can I thank you?” asked the elephant joyously, as Ngai began the transformation.
“You may not wish to,” answered Ngai.
“Why not?” asked the elephant.
“Because when all is said and done,” said Ngai, “you will still be an elephant.”
* * *
Some days it is easy to be the mundumugu—the witch doctor—on our terraformed world of Kirinyaga. On such days, I bless the scarecrows in the fields, distribute charms and ointments to the ailing, tell stories to the children, offer my opinions to the Council of Elders, and teach my youthful assistant, Ndemi, the lore of the Kikuyu people—for the mundumugu is more than a maker of charms and curses, more even than a voice of reason in the Council of Elders: he is the repository of all the traditions that make the Kikuyu what they are.
Some days it is difficult to be the mundumugu. When I must decide disputes, one side will always be unhappy with me. Or when there is an illness that I cannot cure, and I know that soon I will be telling the sufferer’s family to leave him out for the hyenas. Or when Ndemi, who will someday be the mundumugu, gives every indication that he will not be ready to assume my duties when my body, already old and wrinkled, reaches the point, not too long off, when it is no longer able to function.
And, once in a long while, it is terrible to be the mundumugu, for I am presented with a problem against which all the accumulated wisdom of the Kikuyu seems like a reed in the wind.
Such a day begins like any other. I awake from my slumber and walk out of my hut into my boma with my blanket wrapped around my shoulders, for though it will soon be warm the sun has not yet removed the chill from the air. I light a fire and sit next to it, waiting for Ndemi, who will almost certainly be late. Sometimes I marvel at the facility of his imagination, for never has he given me the same excuse twice.
As I grow older, I have taken to chewing a qat leaf in the morning to start the blood flowing through my body. Ndemi disapproves, for he has been taught the uses of qat as a medicine and he knows that it is addictive. I will explain to him again that without it I would probably be in constant pain until the sun was overhead, that when you are as old as I am your muscles and joints do not always respond to your commands and can fill you with agony, and he will shrug and nod his head and forget again by the following morning.
Eventually he will arrive, my young assistant, and after he explains why he was late today, he will take my gourds down to the river and fill them with water, and then gather firewood and bring it to my boma. Then we will embark upon our daily lesson, in which perhaps I will explain to him how to make an ointment out of the pods of the acacia tree, and he will sit and try not to squirm and will demonstrate such self-control that he may well listen to me for ten or twelve minutes before asking when I will teach him how to turn an enemy into an insect so that he may stamp on him.
Finally I will take him into my hut, and teach him the rudiments of my computer, for after I am dead it will be Ndemi who will have to contact Maintenance and request the orbital adjustments that will affect the seasons, that will bring rain to the parched plains, that will make the days longer or shorter to give the illusion of seasonal changes.
Then, if it is to be an ordinary day, I will fill my pouch with charms and will begin walking through the fields, warding off any thahu or curse, that has been placed on them, and assuring that they will continue to yield the food we need to survive, and if the rains have come and the land is green, perhaps I will slaughter a goat to thank Ngai for His beneficence.
If it is not to be an ordinary day, I usually know at the outset. Perhaps there will be hyena dung in my boma, a sure sign of a thahu, or the wind may come from the west, whereas all good winds blow from the east.
But on the day in question, there was no wind at all, and no hyenas had been in my boma the night before. It began like any other day. Ndemi was late—this time, he claimed, because there was a black mamba on the path up my hill, and he had to wait until it finally slithered off into the tall grasses—and I had just finished teaching him the prayer for health and long life that he must recite at the birth of a new baby, when Koinnage, the paramount chief of the village, walked up to my boma.
“Jambo, Koinnage,” I greeted him, dropping my blanket to the ground, for the sun was now overhead and the air was finally warm.
“Jambo, Koriba,” he replied, a worried frown on his face. I looked at him expectantly, for it is very rare for Koinnage to climb my hill and visit me in my boma.
“It has happened again,” he announced grimly. “This is the third time since the long rains.”
“What has happened?” I asked, confused.
“Ngala is dead,” said Koinnage. “He walked out naked and unarmed among the hyenas, and they killed him.”
“Naked and unarmed?” I repeated. “Are you certain?”
“I am certain.”
I squatted down near my dying fire, lost in thought. Keino was the first young man we had lost. We had thought it was an accident, that he had stumbled and somehow fallen upon his own spear. Then came Njupo, who burned to death when his hut caught fire while he was inside it.
Keino and Njupo lived with the young, unmarried men in a small colony by the edge of the forest, a few kilometers from the main village. Two such deaths might have been coincidence, but now there was a third, and it cast a new light on the first two. It was now obvious that, within the space of a few brief months, three young men had chosen to commit suicide rather then continue their lives on Kirinyaga.
“What are we to do, Koriba?” asked Koinnage. “My own son lives at the edge of the forest. He could be the next one!”
I took a round, polished stone from the pouch about my neck, stood up, and handed it to him.
“Place this beneath your son’s sleeping blanket,” I said. “It will protect him from this thahu that is affecting our young men.”
“Thank you, Koriba,” he said gratefully. “But can you not provide charms for all the young men?”
“No,” I replied, still greatly disturbed by what I had heard. “That stone is only for the son of a chief. And just as there are all kinds of charms, there are all kinds of curses. I must determine who has placed this thahu on our young men, and why. Then and only then can I create strong enough magic to combat it.” I paused. “Can Ndemi bring you some pombe to drink?”
He shook his head. “I must return to the village. The women are wailing the death chant, and there is much to be done. We must burn Ngala’s hut and purify the ground upon which it rested, and we must post guards to make sure that the hyenas, having feasted so easily, do not come back in search of more human flesh.”
He turned and took a few steps toward the village, then stopped.
“Why is this happening, Koriba?” he asked, his eyes filled with puzzlement. “And is the thahu limited just to the young men, or do the rest of us bear it too?”
I had no answer fo
r him, and after a moment he resumed walking down the path that led to the village.
I sat down next to my fire and stared silently out over the fields and savannah until Ndemi finally sat down next to me.
“What kind of thahu would make Ngala and Keino and Njupo all kill themselves, Koriba?” he asked, and I could tell from his tone that he was frightened.
“I am not sure yet,” I replied. “Keino was very much in love with Mwala, and he was very unhappy when old Siboki was able to pay the bride price for her before he himself could. If it were just Keino, I would say that he ended his life because he could not have her. But now two more have died, and I must find the reason for it.”
“They all live in the village of young men by the edge of the forest,” said Ndemi. “Perhaps it is cursed.”
I shook my head. “They have not all killed themselves.”
“You know,” said Ndemi, “when Nboka drowned in the river two rains ago, we all thought it was an accident. But he, too, lived in the village of young men. Perhaps he killed himself as well.”
I had not thought of Nboka in a long time. I thought of him now, and realized that he could very well have committed suicide. Certainly it made sense, for Nboka was known to be a very strong swimmer.
“I think perhaps you are right,” I replied reluctantly.
Ndemi’s chest puffed up with pride, for I do not often compliment him.
“What kind of magic will you make, Koriba?” he asked. “If it requires the feathers of the crested crane or the maribou stork, I could get them for you. I have been practicing with my spear.”
“I do not know what magic I shall make yet, Ndemi,” I told him. “But whatever it is, it will require thought and not spears.”
“That is too bad,” he said, shielding his eyes from the dust that a sudden warm breeze brought to us. “I thought I had finally found a use for it.”
“For what?”
“For my spear,” he said. “I no longer herd cattle on my father’s shamba, now that I am helping you, so I no longer need it.” He shrugged. “I think I shall leave it at home from now on.”
“No, you must always take it with you,” I said. “It is customary for all Kikuyu men to carry spears.”
