The Headhunter's Daughter

by Tamar Myers

  Although the men of hunting age were absent that afternoon, there were perhaps a hundred women in residence, and maybe four times that many children, and a score of elderly men; and as the small party progressed around the very clean, coiling street, doors slammed, and people either shrieked in fear or hurled angry insults at the passing demons. But not everyone.

  There were a few sophisticates—folks who had been to the outside: a young blind man who mysteriously spoke three English words, “Call me Charles”; the occasional crone with the gift of second sight; and groups of young boys who, although terrified, refused to act in any way but foolishly brave. The last took turns pushing one another at the foursome, and then squealing in genuine terror while their comrades laughed nervously. It was a boys’ game that Amanda recognized as something that could be played in any culture, and in any country, around the world.

  “Waddabushekke,” she said.

  The boys fell back, apparently stunned by that one word of greeting in their tongue. But an old crone dressed only in a filthy loincloth of woven palm fibers, and whose shrunken dugs hung flat on her chest, took Amanda’s soft hand in hers.

  “Eh, waddabunne.”

  Amanda smiled at the woman, who smiled back. As with every Mushilele individual beyond the age of weaning, she was missing her two front teeth. This was a sign of tribal membership; one which “civilized” Bashilele often came to regret. Already Amanda had heard stories of young Bashilele men who, upon deciding to make their way in the city, had first fashioned for themselves false teeth out of wood. One truly innovative youth with a high tolerance for pain had managed to cut a pair of metal front teeth from the side of a tin can.

  The old woman’s rough fingers felt like dahlia tubers, and she smelled strongly—perhaps of wood smoke, if one were to put it kindly, but Amanda thrilled at her touch. Here was the real Africa. This was what she had come to experience—not the judgmental pronouncements of the corpulent Mr. Gorman, or the relative luxuries of the Missionary Rest House. Only this could redeem her—yes, yes, she knew that only the blood of Jesus Christ could redeem her, but that’s not what she meant. Or was it? No one else she knew was guilty of taking eleven innocent lives; no one. And until they were—well, let them preach all they wanted then. Funny, but the Bashilele, they were sort of like her, weren’t they?

  “Amanda? Are you all right?”

  “What, Pierre?” If she sounded annoyed, that’s because she was. A little.

  “You seem a bit—um, stunned.”

  “Yes, it is somewhat of a culture shock.”

  “Oui, but it is a shock for them as well. A good one, I think. You have attracted quite a follow-group, yes?” As usual, his English was charmingly accented, if not quite perfect.

  The young woman glanced over her shoulder and was taken aback by what she saw. “The word is following, Pierre.”

  At any rate, there were perhaps fifty children, women of various ages, old men and infirm, trailing behind her as if she were the pied piper. They’d even been joined by a couple of the beautiful indigenous dogs called basenjis that, like wolves, are incapable of barking, and which have short sleek coats and tails as tightly coiled as cinnamon buns. As for Cripple and the soldiers, they seemed to have dropped out of sight.

  “Just think, Amanda, you are more popular even than elephant meat! How many women back in your American city can say that?”

  She laughed, which for some reason prompted the old crone to laugh as well. “None, I guess,” Amanda said, “except for Lilibet Vass, who was the most popular girl in the entire high school.”

  “No,” Pierre said, “I do not believe that.”

  They rounded the end of a great coil of huts and found themselves facing the pair of trees with the smooth bark and dark ovoid leaves.

  “The famous Trees of Life,” Pierre said. “Be careful not to touch them, so that you do not accidentally break any branches off.”

  “Good idea. Pierre, look. It’s the girl!”

  “Mon dieu! She is a blanc—like you!”

  Amanda couldn’t help but stare; it was the strangest sight she had ever seen.

  Chapter Six

  Mastermind took a deep breath before proceeding. All would be well. It was all downhill from here. Still, if only there had been a sign—even just one—during those thirteen long years of silence. Well, never mind. What mattered now was the ending, and by the looks of things, that was surely under control. The trick to keeping it that way was to appear calm, unfazed by whatever happened next.

  Ugly Eyes felt her knees go weak and she felt the urge to fall on the ground. The sight she beheld was a nightmare, yet she remained awake and could feel her heart pound and her mouth go dry. Everything she’d been told about the Bula Matadi was true—and even more so. They were hideous beyond belief—particularly the one she supposed was the female. Her skin was white like the underbelly of a frog, and her hair was not the color that hair should be, and it grew like long algae that clung to the downstream side of rocks in the stream. Both the whites wore strange clothes of many descriptions, which surely explained the sweat that gleamed on their brows and the strong goat odor that accompanied them.

  No! Was that elephant meat? For a minute Ugly Eyes forgot her panic in the anticipation of a feast. And yes, there was meat, and two African men from a strange tribe and a crippled woman, also African, who talked too much, but then there remained the matter of the Bula Matadi, for now they sought to speak to Father—although it was soon clear that Father did not speak their difficult language.

  “Is there no one here who can speak this gibberish?” Father demanded in an angry voice. It was fear that made him peevish; this much Ugly Eyes understood.

  No one answered.

  “Bring me the blind man,” Father ordered. And when he was brought, quivering, Father ordered him, saying, “You, Blinded by Spitting Cobra, you claim to know seven tongues. Ask these Belgians what it is they want.”

  “Call me Charles,” Blinded by Spitting Cobra said.

  “Heddo, Charles,” the woman said, or something that sounded like that.

  “What did she say?” Father demanded.

  “That first we must feast on all this meat, only then she will tell us what she wants.”

  Father was furious, for he was not a fool. “Will you drink from the poison cup to swear that your words are true?”

  “Aiyee, you are not to trust a blind man,” cried Blinded by Spitting Cobra, and he slunk away. “Ugly Eyes,” Father said gently, “go in the hut and gather your things, for we are going on a trip.”

  “A trip, Father?”

  “Remember to get your favorite hair pick, your spare loincloth, and your toe loom. You may put them in your mother’s egg bag; I will make for her another.”

  “Where are we going, Father?”

  “We are going to visit the Bula Matadi’s land, to see if there is good hunting in that distant place.”

  “Can Mother accompany us?”

  “Ugly Eyes, surely you jest. Who would there be to inform the chief of our whereabouts? I am, after all, his right-hand man.”

  “Yes, Father,” the girl said with mounting dread, “I was only joking.”

  Cripple knew exactly why she’d been summoned to the front of the line. But since she’d flat-out lied, there was nothing she could say in her own defense. She may as well just confess—

  “Aiyee! Mamu, this is most horrible!”

  “This is a girl, Cripple.”

  “But Mamu, she is naked above the waist. And she has breasts!”

  “So does every other woman in this village, Cripple,” the white woman said, with unnecessary irritability.

  “Yes, but Mamu, these breasts are white, so it is like they are really naked—mene, mene.”

  Her employer sighed. “You have a point. What do you suggest we do?”

  “We must insist that she covers them up, Mamu.”

  The young woman from America sighed again. “But in order to do that
, first we must make her feel shame.”

  “You are correct, Mamu. Fortunately, you are a missionary, and causing one to feel shame is precisely your job, is it not?”

  Cripple was pleased that the young Belgian police captain, Pierre Jardin, seemed amused by her observation. She knew that the Catholic tribe of Christians was at war with the Protestant tribe, each proclaiming the other to be false and on the road bound for a destination they called ngena—which wasn’t originally even a Tshiluba word. This place was supposedly a lake, yet at the same time nothing but flames of fire into which the enemies of their god were burned alive, screaming in agony for all eternity.

  The young American, however, was not amused. “Cripple, are you trying to make a point again? I already know that you reject God; all I want you to do now is to translate for me.”

  “Yes, Mamu, but I am afraid that is impossible.”

  “No, it is quite possible. Now do it—please. Tell this girl that I am happy to meet her, and ask her what her name is.”

  “Yes, Mamu.” Cripple turned to the girl. “The white woman with the large feet and wide hips is happy to meet you, and would like to know what your name is.”

  “Unh?” the girl said, turning to her father.

  “Cripple!” the mamu practically screamed. “You were supposed to ask that in her language, not in Tshiluba. I could have asked it in Tshiluba.”

  “Then perhaps you should have, Mamu, because I do not speak this primitive bush tongue.”

  “Mon Dieu,” the captain roared, “then you lied to us! You claimed that you could speak Bushilele. You said that you learned it while playing with a girl who lived next to you in the workers’ village when you were growing up.”

  “But Monsieur le Capitain, I am just a heathen, the wife of a witch doctor. Surely you do not believe the words I speak.”

  “I most certainly will not in the future,” the captain said. “Mene, mene.”

  “Stop that,” the American girl said. “The question is, Now what do we do?”

  Cripple looked for the sun, which she knew would be already low in the sky. When it dropped quickly to its bed behind the horizon, the spirits of the Bashilele ancestors would rise from their graves (surely there was a cemetery somewhere near a village this size) and then her life might be at stake. This was especially the case since she had mocked these people.

  “Bakalenge,” she said, “my lords, perhaps we should drop our most gracious gift of elephant meat at the feet of these most hideous excuses for children of women I have ever seen, for truly they offend my eyes. Then while they scramble about like dogs, we should run for our lives, each giving no thought for the other.”

  The soldiers laughed, causing Cripple to grin.

  “Very well, Cripple,” the captain said, “but then you will be left behind.”

  Cripple raised her head high and threw back her shoulders just so, which emphasized her twisted body to perfection. “Eyo, but then at least the mamu will have her justice. As for me, I do not mind dying; have I not proved that once before?”

  The captain nodded gravely. “Indeed you have. And yes, we are very grateful for that. Are we not, Mademoiselle Brown?”

  “Eyo, we are, but—”

  “So we will do exactly as you have suggested. Men,” he said, addressing his awful laughing soldiers, “have you been listening to our words?”

  “Yes, lord,” they said, and nearly dropped the sling which held the precious hunks of delicious protein.

  Standing at two meters the Headhunter was of average height. He was also of average strength and intelligence and possessed no special gifts of which he was aware—except for one: the Headhunter was a sentient, a mumanyi. Although the Headhunter had long ago found that being so tuned in to the moods of the universe that one could know the future was both advantageous and a curse. True, it was his special ability that had enabled him to rise to a position of power in the village, but the Headhunter was also keenly aware that a slip of the tongue could result in his slit throat. No one liked bad news for themselves, no matter how true it was.

  So it was that the longer the Headhunter beheld the strange quartet, the clearer his understanding of the situation became. Indeed, his son had sent from the spirit world a solution to the problem of Ugly Eyes’ evolving womanhood. In addition, and perhaps to make up for having caused his mother so much unhappiness, Born-With-Cord-Around-His-Neck had sent along a female slave. But as always his son tended to be rash in his actions and had not carefully examined his choice of female slaves. This one was not only crippled, but she had the temper of a setting hen. She certainly would be more trouble than she was worth. It was much better to give her to the Bula Matadi and let her drive them crazy. No doubt such a gift would help hasten the day of independence.

  The Headhunter waved his arms at Cripple. “You! We do not want you. Go back with the white man, little one.”

  Next he motioned for the soldiers to come and deposit the meat at his hearth. As he did so he kicked back a dog with the side of his foot. “You, white man’s lackeys, bring the elephant meat here. I hope it has been butchered properly, for my wives will be in charge of its distribution, and cutting through any elephant skin will be impossible for them.”

  Only then did the Headhunter turn to address Ugly Eyes’ mother. “Morning Light, you must abide by the knowledge that has come to reside within me. If you do not accept it, you will meet only unhappiness on your journey.”

  Morning Light immediately sat in the dirt in the doorway of her hut and began to scoop loose sand into fistfuls which she dribbled into her hair as a sign of mourning, for she knew what was to follow. Morning Light was not mumanyi, but she did know her husband very well, for she had been his wife for twenty-four years.

  “E, Husband,” she moaned, “I will meet acceptance of my journey.”

  “Good. Then it is with a heavy heart that I tell you that our daughter, Ugly Eyes, must go on her own journey, back to the world of the Bula Matadi. I have decided to accompany her. Once she is safely there, and settled in, I will return.”

  “Is this a punishment, Husband?”

  “No, Wife; this is a gift from your son. This is a solution to a very large problem that we were about to face, but which we did not want to acknowledge.”

  Meanwhile, Ugly Eyes, who had obediently retrieved her scant belongings from the hut, stood outside at a respectable distance from everyone personally involved and said nothing. Curiously, for the first time her sky-blue eyes seemed more striking than ugly.

  Suddenly, much to the Headhunter’s great surprise, Morning Light was on her feet, shaking her head. “Give me your machete, Husband, so that I might divide the meat properly. In exchange you may take my manioc knife to keep you safe from these most unattractive foreigners and the traitorous gorillas who serve as their henchmen. Also, remember to take your bow and arrows. Do you wish me to get some poison from the witch doctor’s hut?”

  Iron Sliver and a few of the other women standing close enough to hear these words gasped before dissolving into giggles. Even the Headhunter smiled.

  “You are a good wife,” he said. “I could not ask for better.”

  Theirs was a culture that lacked a word for love in the romantic sense, but Husband had surely spoken words of affection—had he not? Similarly, Husband felt deep affection for the girl he had come to think of as his daughter—as if she were his very own flesh and blood.

  Had Husband’s ensuing thoughts been turned into words that all could read and understand, they would have been written as follows: I knew that this day would come, and thus I have prepared for it for a long time. I will accompany my daughter into the strange world of the Bula Matadi, and I will protect her with my life.

  Only once have I been farther than the village of Musoko, and that was when I was on my sacred journey to collect my drinking skull. I ventured then as far as a stream in the direction of the setting sun—a stream that sparkles with diamonds. I collected my skull from a Mupen
de hunter, so that having encountered no Bula Matadi on that trip, my knowledge of them, until today, has only been hearsay.

  Most, but not everything I have heard has been bad, and since you are everything good, daughter, there must also be good Bula Matadi somewhere as well. Together we will seek and find these good people. I will not rest until I have safely delivered you into their hands, for this is the promise I made to my son that day when he brought you to us as a swaddling child.

  So I will go with you, Ugly Eyes, even as far as the earth begins to bend, and if I find suitable material for a torch, I will follow you to the place where the sun disappears each night. Know this above all else: there is no need to be afraid.

  Chapter Seven

  The girl was torn between fear and excitement, exhilaration and pain. The white man’s didiba was woven of cotton and softer than the one Mother wove from palm fibers, but still it chafed against her nipples. Before they’d walked ten paces from the village, there had been an argument between the two Bula Matadi about her wearing it. Of course she couldn’t understand the words they spoke, but when the anger reached its peak, the female removed part of her own didiba—she wore two, one on top of the other—and tied it around Ugly Eyes’ chest.

  It was an utterly humiliating experience. Never before had Ugly Eyes felt so violated. And now wearing the disgusting garment that drew attention to her breasts made her feel dirty—like she imagined the two village harlots must feel. But they had once been Batshioke slaves from down around Kajijji way, not the free-born daughter of a Mushelele.

  There had been so many feelings to process at once that Ugly Eyes could scarcely remember saying good-bye to Mother, who now lay prostrate in the dirt outside their hut, keening. Iron Sliver, always a good friend, had joined in the keening, as had a number of other women. Still, there were many women who did not know Mother well, and now these women and their children had become emboldened and had formed a rear flank that even harsh words from the soldiers could not dispel—although there were harsh words from the villagers as well.