Reign of the Nightmare Prince

by Mike Phillips

  The limping man turned with a start. The blanket fell away. It was Mabetu. Timbo released his grip and was struck dumb. “What is this?” he demanded at last.

  The look of anger on the old Kasisi’s face was bright and deep. He said in reply, “I need some of the blessed water to perform a ceremony.”

  “No, this Well is for the Sacred Grove alone.”

  “The Gifts of the Almighty are for all peoples,” Mabetu said, turning away, lowering a small vessel into the water on a new rope.

  “No, you mean to defile this place for Rakam, the heretic, the man who consorts with the desert Jinn. No, Mabetu, you have gone too far this time.”

  “No, Timbo, you do not go far enough. If it were for the salvation of a heathen, a desert Jinn, or even our Shaitani enemies, I would ‘defile’ your well.” Mabetu raised the full vessel from the Well and placed it on the timbers, taking a small jar from his satchel and pulling the stopper with his teeth.

  “Give that to me,” demanded Timbo.

  “No, you’ll have to take it, and I will not let it go but for the price of my own life,” said Mabetu. Ignoring Timbo, he began filling the jar with the waters of the Well, spilling a little on the timbers from the shaking of his hands. “If there is some malevolent spirit in possession of Rakam’s body, then I will cast it out. If he has fallen into sin, I will purify him. You can try to take it from me.”

  Timbo stood back and almost fell over in his surprise. “Well, the others will hear of this. I promise you, the others will hear of your blasphemy.”

  * * *

  “Rakam, come help an old man,” said Mabetu after he returned from the well, breathing hard as he hurriedly collected his things.

  “I don’t believe that old man act for a moment,” said Rakam, falling back into the casual ease that had always marked their friendship.

  They were lodged in the guesthouse where the MaKasisi stayed during the Ceremony of the Grove. Rakam had just awoken and was feeding little Betu some dried fish when Mabetu returned, seemingly in a hurry. Realizing now how serious his great-grandfather was, he stood and went over to where Mabetu was gathering his things.

  He said tentatively, “You may have the rest of the village fooled, but I know you far better than that.”

  Mabetu continued with his labors, but gave a breathless chuckle, saying, “When I saw you, standing there in the Grove, in tatters as you were, a man changed much from my eyes since the last time I beheld you. Yes, indeed then some long years had fallen away from me, like leaves in the forest at the coming of the Long Night. Then, I thought all my worries were a thing of the past since you had come back to me. I thought after long last, I could give up my labors and let the younger ones take care of things. But, then, you spoke of the return of the MaShaitani, such a terrible return, and I feel the weight of time upon me once again.”

  “If the very mention of the MaShaitani draws the strength from our most venerable and honored forefather, then what hope is there for the rest of us?”

  “Oh, you’ve not lost that silvered tongue of yours through all the miles spent in loneliness.”

  Mabetu looked over the medicines spread before him, not knowing where to begin. He could not carry it all himself. Most of it, he would not need where he was going, and so it could be sent home with Kolojo. “If only one of these could turn back the seasons, renew the vigor and health of my limbs, and give me the strength to do what will be required of me in the time ahead.”

  “But you have spent a lifetime training those such as Timbo and Kolojo to do that very job for you in this time of need. You have raised an army to fight the MaShaitani, and that army is strong.”

  “Yes, teach a man to fish, and he will eat for a lifetime, well said, but that does not ease my heart.”

  “Nor should any hearts be eased at such a time, lest the peril run over us as a tide upon the shore.”

  “Hear this, Kolojo?” Mabetu said, calling to the young man as he entered the guesthouse. “He left us as a young man, and he returned as a poet. Hours of suffering in the desert sun must sharpen the mind.”

  “About as sharp as those arrows he carries,” said Kolojo sarcastically.

  “Thanks, cousin.”

  “There are many things about Rakam that have changed,” Kolojo said. “Not so much as this new friend of his. Tell me, how did you learn to train him? I’ve always been amazed by stories of the usefulness of these river dogs.”

  “She came to me already trained. She saved my life when I was drowning. Otherwise she has done more to train me than I her.”

  Kolojo sat. “I see. But it seems that you owe me a better explanation as to where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing.”

  “It’s a long way to the lands of the Marsh King. You will soon grow tired of my stories.”

  “No,” Mabetu said, “I have decided to send Kolojo back, to warn our village of the coming danger.”

  “But, grandfather,” Kolojo began to protest.

  “No, Kolojo, you must warn our people. Tell them to harvest what they can from the fields and the herds and make ready for war.”

  Gathering the solemnity required of the request, Kolojo said, “I will.”

  “Good, I’ve asked five good warriors from the Grove to accompany you. With the end of the day at hand, the Katabo will be out seeking meat.”

  “You are going with Cousin Timbo, then?”

  “No,” Mabetu laughed self-indulgently, shaking his head. “I don’t believe he would have me, but I’ve other concerns. Rakam and I will set out as soon as my things are ready, and we have gathered food.”

  Kolojo said sternly, “Then you must take warriors, as well.”

  “No, though to the Marsh King we go, we travel by another way. I have reasons of my own for taking that road, and we must go alone.”

  “Oh?” said Rakam.

  “Yes, but let us not speak of it now.”

  “As you wish.”

  Kolojo said, “But, then, you think the Marsh King will not win against the MaShaitani?”

  “That I do not know, but my heart tells me the pride of our king will be his own undoing. It may be that we have the strength to meet this enemy, but then again we may not. If the seas roll us over as my young poet says, then our best hope is to flee.”

  Rakam added, “And, the MaShaitani may come to our villages and the villages of the high valley first, saving the strongest enemy for the last.”

  “Yes, I’ve considered that, as well. Otherwise, why did they not begin their attacks from the deep mountains, where their ancestral home lies?” Mabetu stopped abruptly. “Enough talk, we must ready ourselves for the journey.”

  Chapter 12

  The sun was setting, beginning its sorrowful path into oblivion. With the coming of the Long Night, evil washed across the land like the waters of the great river as it flowed to the sea. Such was the time Rakam and Mabetu found themselves making their way through a strange and dark forest.

  Bushes and tall ferns grew thickly where no man had walked for time uncounted. The trees above reached into the sky, testing the air with delicate fingers, growing taller with each drop of rain and moment in the sun, their leaves making near darkness on the forest floor in the waning sunlight.

  Rakam and Mabetu had begun their journey from the Village of the Sacred Grove by the road that ran beside the river. The way was well maintained and much traveled. The two of them made good time, despite the fact that Mabetu’s health proved as bad as he claimed it to be. The old man rarely complained, but he had been honest about his limitations. For nearly a league after they had turned away from the main road, the going had been easy. Then everything had changed.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Rakam suddenly, resting with his backside against the thick trunk of an ancient tree. He had been using a small axe to hack and claw a path. Testing the blade of the axe with his thumb, he found its edge dull. Pulling a small stone from his things, he began honing the edge.

  �
��To the Marsh King,” Mabetu answered simply, picking up Betu. Giving the river dog a piece of dried meat, he placed her into a wide bottomed satchel he had found in the village, coaxing her into sleep. “Rest now, for even though you have twice our number of feet, you haven’t a tenth the leg.”

  Unperturbed, Rakam said, “Unless the world has changed much in my absence, this is not the way.”

  “I have another way, a secret way.”

  Rakam stopped filing the edge, looking up and saying, “You fear MaShaitani?”

  Nodding in acquiescence, Mabetu said, “Yes, but not so much as other things at the moment. This way we will come around the marshes. Such a place makes traveling very difficult for an old man, and there are diseases that linger there.”

  “Good advice,” admitted Rakam, “but that’s not it.”

  “There was a Pool, once.” Mabetu began. He stood, taking the axe away from Rakam and swinging it at the underbrush. “The waters of the Pool were unusually clear and fragrant. Nothing grew in the water, but on the shore was a plant that was used to good effect in treating the sleeping sickness. Until I found the cure, the place was tended by a Kasisi that held an office of equal status to Timbo. Since I made my discovery, the Pool has been abandoned. There was a shrine there which should be taken care of.”

  Rakam took the axe away from Mabetu and began hacking at the vegetation once again. Shortly he found an animal path heading in the same general direction in which they were bound and they followed it. Holding up a branch so Mabetu could pass, Rakam said, “And? You don’t mean to take me on these wild paths to clean some old rock. There must be hundreds of such places that have been lost throughout the life and death of our fathers. What makes this one so special?”

  “The waters of the Pool had a certain special quality about them, as well.”

  “Some salt or mineral, right?”

  “Yes, you have learned well those things a healer must know. This water had a particular fame for the exorcism of spirits.” Hurrying to calm Rakam’s frantic expression, Mabetu said, “Now listen. Before you rush to make judgments on my intentions, allow me to explain.”

  “I told you I rejected the Jinn.”

  “Yes, but such a thing may leave a mark or taint upon even an honest man. Spirits work in strange ways. They are very devious. They can use a man, turn his pride, his hate, his lust, against him; but also his honesty, his loyalty, and his heart.

  “When I was a young man, traveling with my cure for the sleeping sickness, I came upon a woman, not a witch, but an ordinary village woman who had been overcome by spirits. It was said in her village that her husband would beat her savagely, and often without cause. Her father was dead and her brothers would not be bothered to interfere with their good friend’s marriage, the lawful dealings he had with his wife. Within this woman’s heart, she let anger grow, eating her from the inside out. Spirits came to her one night, giving her the strength of ten men. She killed her husband, and the village men were not able to keep her from running off into the jungle. She was never found again.”

  “Sounds like that flower of yours,” said Rakam. “You always cautioned me to be wary of blaming all the ills of the world on evil spirits.”

  “That is true, as all my lessons carry value, but it was before we had come to be troubled by the blue devil flower. And the flower acts slowly, like your crashing of waves upon the beach, growing madness over time, and then there are the colored lesions on the skin. No, it wasn’t the flower.” Mabetu suddenly paused.

  Excitedly, the old man ambled up to a young tree. It was growing in a place where one of the fully grown trees had fallen, but was maybe ten or fifteen rains older than anything else growing around it.

  “Look here,” Mabetu said, “a tabika fruit tree.”

  “So? It’s not uncommon.”

  “That is your anger speaking,” Mabetu said with a sigh. “I planted this here hoping to provide food for the people on this road.”

  “Road? What road?” Rakam asked, almost laughing as he looked around.

  “The forest is quick to reclaim its own.” Pointing to the trunk of an old growth tree nearby, Mabetu said, “Look, the symbol of the Pool. We are on the right path. It will prove much easier for us now.”

  They began walking again, and the way did prove to be much easier. Though the path was not good, Rakam could put away the axe. “You think spirits possess me?”

  Thinking hard for a moment, Mabetu finally announced, “No, but I have to make certain. There are signs, none of which you have shown. There are tests, which I will soon cause you to endure.”

  “Then what?”

  “A purification ritual. Then, if need be, I will make use of the Pool’s waters to drive out the spirits.”

  The path widened, and the way became clear. “Take out that new bow of yours,” Mabetu said, pointing to a mark on the ground. “It’s not fresh, but you can’t be careful enough in these times.”

  “Latenga by the look of it. Don’t worry. That was made some time ago, and they rarely attack people.” Rakam removed the bow from its quiver and, bending it between his legs, had it neatly strung in no time.

  “This is fine work. Thank you for this gift once again.” Rakam drew an arrow from the quiver, looking upon it with admiration. “And these arrows are tipped with the Marsh King’s best metal.”

  “No, you do not understand. Those arrowheads are special. They were made from a rock that fell from the sky. Such rocks carry blessings, and the tools that are made from them are fine, indeed.”

  “You must have paid dearly for them. I cannot accept such a gift. I have nothing to offer you in return.”

  “You are welcome, but I didn’t have to pay for them. The good men of the Sacred Grove would have none of my treasure. Besides, they knew it was for my protection, as well as yours. We couldn’t have you walking across half the valley with those horrid things you made.”

  “It was the best I could do at the time,” said Rakam defensively. “And, it kept me fed well enough.”

  “I should say little Betu kept you fed better than those knotty old sticks.”

  “Half way across the valley, eh? I have a feeling it’s going to be a long walk.”

  “So your wit has grown soft with only a river dog to talk to.”

  “I could ask her to bite you.”

  Mabetu slowly opened the satchel, looking in on the sleeping otter. “No, this little one has walked enough to send her into the land of dreams for a long time. If you can no longer defend yourself with words, then she will do nothing to save you.”

  “Wait, look, more tracks.”

  Turning his attention from the sleeping otter to the ground, Mabetu said, “And, these are fresh.”

  Rakam moved a bit of soil with his fingertips. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It looks like a large male and at least two females. If we are quiet maybe we can avoid them.” He stood and continued walking down the path, Mabetu at his side.

  “Sure, any excuse, just because you’re losing the argument.”

  “Losing? I don’t think I’m exactly losing.”

  “Ah, you are slow to see when you have been beaten.”

  “Do you treat poor Kolojo like this? No wonder Timbo gave you that look as we were leaving the village.”

  “No, that look was intended for you. He thinks you are leading me into ruin.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Smiling devilishly, Mabetu replied, “I procured a bit of water from the Sacred Well on your behalf. He didn’t think it was an appropriate act, especially since your loyalties are in question.”

  “Are they? Because of the Jinn?”

  “That is the name he gives it, but there are other reasons.”

  The forest went quiet. The small animals had stopped their chatter, finding places to hide until the danger passed. A loud crashing sound arose from the underbrush ahead.

  Rakam froze. Thinking the latenga had found them, he dropped his satchel and raised his bow. An arr
ow was quickly set to the string. Mabetu clutched the satchel holding little Betu tightly and began chanting in low tones. Rakam took a step forward, trying to catch sight of whatever was hidden by the forest.

  A branch broke with a loud crack. More branches were broken in quick succession, and then a shout of frustration was made. The shout was not expressed in words, at least no words that Rakam understood. The voice sounded gruff, but he did not have enough knowledge of the MaShaitani to discern whether all of their voices were as gruff as those he had heard.

  Mabetu was about to speak but Rakam cautioned him, remembering the MaShaitani he had stumbled upon in another forest, not so long ago. He made a sign for the old man to take Betu and hide behind a tree, setting their things off the path under a fern. When all was ready, Rakam advanced, intent upon the noise, ready to let the arrow fly.

  As he neared the edge of the path on the far side, only a bush separated Rakam and the thing that was making the noise. He could see the vague outline of a shape between the thick leaves. The person or Shaitani was facing the other way, crouched low upon the ground, working on what was likely a pile of sticks for a fire.

  Rakam heard what sounded like stone being struck against steel to create a spark, and he wondered if this was another way MaShaitani made fire, much like how his own people accomplished the task. The fire was soon kindled, and the pungent scent of burnt grass filled the air. A song was begun, and Rakam started in recognition as the first few phrases of the prayer in thanksgiving for feast were sung.

  “Hello, friend,” Rakam called out, giving a sign to Mabetu and pressing forward. The man jumped to his feet, tripping over the fire and sprawling out face down onto the ground in his surprise. Careful not to open himself to attack, Rakam stepped behind a tree and said, “We mean you no harm.”

  “Who’s that?” a gruff voice said in turn. “Who are you?”

  “Pilgrims to the Sacred Pool,” Mabetu said in a soft voice, not bothering to hide himself as Rakam did. “Peace, my friend, peace. You are the Keeper of the Pool. Heavens alive, but I didn’t know anyone remained to carry on such a duty.”