by Mike Resnick
“So you’re a laiboni?”
“I am a laiboni,” confirmed Sokoine ole Parasayip. He stared at me. “You look puzzled.”
“I am,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Two reasons,” I said. “First, I don’t know why a laiboni would want to kill himself. And second, why do you need an historian? I gather you asked for me by profession rather than by name.”
“That is true,” said Sokoine.
“Well?” I said.
“I find it very uncomfortable to speak with you while lying flat on this bed. Can you help me to my feet?”
“No,” I said. “But I can raise the part beneath your pillow.”
I reached over and adjusted the control, and the top quarter of his bed slowly rose until it was at a 45-degree angle with the rest of it.
“Better?” I asked.
“Much,” said Sokoine.
I looked around, spotted a chair, summoned it to his bedside, and sat down on it. “Now perhaps you can tell me why a man I’ve never seen before, a man who just tried to kill himself, wants me to visit him.”
“I must learn things that only an historian can tell me,” he answered.
“What kind of things?”
“I am a laiboni,” began Sokoine.
“So you said,” I replied. “Where are you from?”
“The manyattas between the cities of il-taarrosero and il-ikumai.”
“I know the area,” I said.
“I am a good laiboni,” he continued. “I have never done anything to bring disrespect or shame upon myself or my calling.”
“Okay, you’re a good laiboni,” I replied. “What about it?”
“I have treated the sick, I have blessed the cattle, I have presided at the circumcision rituals and the Eunoto, the ceremony where the elmoran become junior elders. Whatever I have been requested to do I have done. If the family that made the request was poor, I have accepted only a single goat as my fee, not even an old steer. I am a good laiboni.”
“Why does a good laiboni try to end his life?” I asked.
“What is a laiboni to do when he is no longer wanted or needed?” asked Sokoine miserably. “Not a single girl in my domain has been circumcised this year. Eleven boys have been circumcised, but here in the hospital, not in the traditional ceremony. I no longer am asked to bless the cattle, for the animal laiboni—the veterinarian—comes out from il-ikumai with his medicines. The children ignore me, the young men laugh at me, the elders look at me with the same sympathy as when they look at an old cow that will soon be slaughtered.” He stared at me, his face a mask of puzzlement. “What is a laiboni to do when he is no longer needed?”
“What he shouldn’t do is kill himself,” I said.
“I have gone to other areas in the hope that they might need me. Those that already had laibonis told me to go away, and those that had none didn’t want one. I spoke to some other laibonis, and they have the same problem. For untold generations the Maasai needed their laibonis. We were treated with dignity and respect, and our calling was honored above all others. And now, in the space of only a few years we have become useless old men, outcasts in our
own land.”
I didn’t know what to say to him, so I simply reached out and held his hand.
“I am a coward,” he continued after a brief pause. “The Maasai are supposed to fear nothing, yet I feared a meaningless life, so I tried to end it. I cut the veins in my arm here”—he indicated a place beneath the bandages on his forearm—“and was prepared to bleed to death, but two elmoran found me and carried me to this hospital. I suppose when I am released I will try again, but first I thought I would speak to an historian.”
“I’m happy to speak to you,” I said. “But what do you wish to discuss?”
“There is another Eutopian world that was colonized by a tribe from Kenya,” he began.
“Yes, Kirinyaga,” I said. “It was settled by the Kikuyu.”
“And the Kikuyu have their laibonis, which they call mundumugus.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you studied Kirinyaga, or merely the history of Earth?” he asked.
“I’ve studied Kirinyaga,” I said unhappily, because I could tell what his next question was going to be.
“Tell me how the mundumugus fared on Kirinyaga, how they kept their people’s respect, and perhaps I will be able to do the same here on Kilimanjaro.”
“Kirinyaga is a different world,” I said.
“They fared that badly?” he asked.
“There was only one mundumugu,” I replied. “His name was Koriba. As far as I can tell, he was an honorable man, and he must have been an intelligent one, because he had advanced degrees from universities in England and America.”
“But?” said Sokoine.
“But he was a fanatic,” I said. “He was convinced that a Kikuyu Utopia could be achieved only by rejecting everything European, by living as the Kikuyu lived before any white men arrived in Kenya.”
“He may have been right,” said Sokoine.
“He was wrong,” I said. “I’ve studied Kirinyaga’s history. It is a series of well-meaning blunders, until even Koriba must have realized that he was harming his world, because eventually he returned to Kenya.”
“And he was their only mundumugu?”
“Yes.”
“Is it inevitable that every world will reject its spiritual leader, or is it only true of African worlds?” he asked curiously. “What of the Christian or Moslem Eutopias?”
“It’s not so much that they rejected spiritual leadership, but rather that some of the people were more willing to accept new ideas than their spiritual leaders.”
“What is new about medical doctors?” insisted Sokoine irritably. “They have been around for centuries.”
“But the Maasai who lived on the savannah and tended their herds did not have access to them for centuries,” I pointed out. “The Maasai who went to live in the cities have been using them for centuries.”
Sokoine was quiet for a long time. I thought he’d fallen asleep again, but finally he spoke.
“I know why Koriba left Kirinyaga,” he said.
“Why?”
“For the same reason I must leave Kilimanjaro,” replied Sokoine. “He did not want to watch his god defeated by the god of the Westerners.”
“It is the same god,” I said. “We just give Him different names.”
He shook his head. “En-kai has slowly been pushed out of Africa. I had hoped that this would be the world where He would finally triumph, but it is not to be. The God of the whites has won again.” He sighed in resignation. “I must find the world that En-kai has retreated to.”
“He’s right where He has always been,” I said. “Didn’t He lead the two elmoran to you before you could bleed to death?”
“So that they could bring me to this…this place,” he said contemptuously. “That is not the act of a compassionate god. No, historian, En-kai is no longer on Kilimanjaro.”
I stared at the bitter old man. I’m an historian; it wasn’t my job to convince him that life was worth living. But he had reached out to me, and I felt an obligation to try.
“Have you decided that it is your duty to find En-kai?” I asked, trying to order my thoughts.
“Yes,” he answered. “All the Maasai are in Africa or on Kilimanjaro, so He must be very lonely on His new world, with no one to honor His wishes and worship Him.”
“You’re looking too far afield,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“En-kai wants you to find Him and worship Him, right?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t find him if you’re dead,” I said, and when I saw that he didn’t follow my reasoning, I added: “If he wants you to worship Him, then he clearly wants you alive…so it was En-kai who directed the elmoran to find you and bring you here. And if He did that, then He is still on Kilimanjaro.”
He stared long and
hard at me, frowning. “There is a flaw in your argument, but I cannot see it.”
“Perhaps you’d better remain on Kilimanjaro until you can,” I suggested. “Until you know En-kai isn’t here, there’s no sense looking elsewhere for Him.”
“I will consider it,” he said.
“Good,” I said. “I understand there’s a chance the hospital will release you tomorrow. Have you got a place to stay?”
“I wander from manyatta to manyatta. No one refuses shelter to the laiboni. Although,” he added, a trouble look on his wrinkled face, “that was before. Tomorrow they may decide they have no more use for a laiboni.”
“You can stay at my place until you’ve recovered your strength,” I said.
“Share a hut with a computer?” he said distastefully.
“It’s not a hut,” I replied. “And who knows? Maybe my computer can teach you a thing or two that will convince the Maasai that their laiboni is not an antique to be cast aside like an empty gourd.”
He stared at me, unblinking. “Why are you doing this?” he asked at last. “You clearly have no use for a laiboni. You do not believe in my magic. You live in the city, you do not wear the red blanket, you carry no spear. Why would such a person help me?”
I had to think about my answer for a minute. Finally I spoke.
“Because I’m an historian, and men like you are part of our history.”
“But not your future,” he said bitterly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Today won’t be history until tomorrow. You’ll have to ask me then.”
“Now that is interesting,” he said weakly. He seemed about to say something else, but suddenly his eyes closed and he lay still. For a moment I thought he had died, but all the machines that were monitoring him kept beeping quietly and I realized that he had simply fallen asleep.
They actually kept Sokoine for three days, until they were satisfied with his condition, and then they released him in my care. I drove him to my apartment, waited for the scanner to check my retina and bone structure, and then entered with him as the door slid into a wall, and then slid shut behind us.
“You’re only my second house guest,” I remarked as he looked around the place. “The first was also a visitor from the manyattas.” I thought back on Mawenzi’s one night there. “He thought the computer was magic.”
“Alien to the Maasai, yes,” said Sokoine. “Magic, no. Surely he saw computers in the ship that brought him here.”
“He was just a young boy,” I explained. “He probably didn’t remember them, or pay them any attention. After all, he went right from a hut on the African savannah to a spaceship. It must have been an overwhelming experience.”
“By now he probably wears a suit and tie, and looks upon the manyattas with contempt.”
“He’s still there with his cattle, and a new bride,” I said. “I see him from time to time.”
“He has seen the city, actually visited it, and he still prefers the life of a herder?” said Sokoine. “Perhaps there is some shred of hope yet.”
I decided not to take him to the restaurant where I usually eat. An old man in his laiboni gear would attract too much attention, so I made dinner for us in my kitchen. He asked a lot of questions about the stove, the range, the freezer, and the other appliances. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with the meal, but he ate it without complaint. And without saying a word.
After dinner he sat in my living room, staring off into space, still silent. I read a bit, did a little work on the computer, and went to bed. When I awoke in the morning, he was still sitting there, motionless.
“Are you all right?” I asked as I approached him.
It took him a moment to realize I was there and to react to my presence. “Yes,” he replied. “Now I am all right, thanks to what you said.”
“What I said?” I repeated.
“That today would be history tomorrow. You were right, David ole Saitoti. Everything changes, and what seems new today is tomorrow’s history. My job is to bring my people comfort, to scare away demons, to give them peace of mind.” Suddenly he smiled. “It is history. Not the need to comfort my people, to heal their wounds and protect them from demons. That is eternal. But the means by which I performed my duties are clearly history. They have been replaced by new means—by medical doctors, by hospitals, by complex machines. And tomorrow they will be history, and the needs of my people will remain.”
“You’re right, of course,” I said. “But I can’t quite see what you’re driving at.”
“The means will always change,” he said. “It is the need that is eternal. And since I am here today, I must use today’s means to accomplish En-kai’s purpose.” He paused. “Today you will take me back to the hospital, not as a patient but as a student. Laiboni is just a word. It is what the laiboni does that matters.”
“I know a couple of men who might be able to help,” I said. I didn’t mention that one of them was the Leader of the entire planetoid. “But I must warn you that if you are accepted, you will begin training as a practical nurse. You may find the work tedious and even demeaning after having been a laiboni.”
He shrugged. “One must begin somewhere. It is not demeaning to help those in need. The only demeaning thing is not to try.”
He was probably thirty years older than me, but I felt like a proud father as I drove him to the hospital.
It was enough to make me once again believe in En-kai.
Well, almost.
7
NIGHT ON
KILIMANJARO (2240 A.D.)
I was awakened in the middle of the night. The vidphone kept calling my name, louder each time, until I finally swung my feet over the edge of the bed, sat up, reached over to the nightstand, and activated it.
“Yeah?” I mumbled. “What is it?”
“David, this is Joshua.”
I peered at the holoscreen. “I can see that. What time is it?”
“Three-thirty in the morning.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” I said, about to break the connection and go back to sleep.
“Damn it, David!” he yelled, startling me. “Wake up!”
I rubbed my eyes with the backs of my hands. “All right, all right. I’m awake. Now why the hell are you calling me at three-thirty in the morning?”
“We need your expertise,” said Joshua.
“I’m an historian, not a goddamned vampire hunter,” I muttered. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“This is not a joke. This is a vitally important matter, and we need your expertise as an historian. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Who is we?” I asked, still trying to focus my eyes.
“The police and me.”
“All right,” I said again. “I’ll get dressed and come…” I stopped, confused. “Where am I going—the police station or your office?”
“I want you to go to wherever you keep all your research,” he said.
“It’s in my office,” I said. “That’s three blocks away.”
“Can you access it from your apartment?”
“I don’t even know what I’m accessing,” I complained.
“Take a minute, get your head on straight, grab a robe, and when I’m sure you’re thinking clearly and not about to go back to sleep, I’ll tell you about it.”
I got up without saying another word and walked to the kitchen. Then I ordered a cup of coffee from the Galley Slave that I had installed a few months ago when I finally got sick of cooking. I listened as it hummed for a few seconds, and then took my cup of steaming hot coffee.
I wandered over to the kitchen table, sat down, ordered the vidphone extension to activate, and waited for Joshua’s holograph to pop into existence.
“I’m up, I’m awake, and I’m caffeinated,” I said. “Now what’s so damned important that it couldn’t wait until morning?”
“We’ve got a corpse here,” said Joshua. “Well, not exactly here. I’m going to transmit holos of it to you
r home computer.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to look at holos of a dead body at four in the morning!” I said irritably.
“It’s only three-thirty-five,” he said. “And this isn’t your typical dead body. It’s been mutilated.”
“Oh, that makes everything all right,” I said. “This is some kind of practical joke, right?”
“No, David, it’s not a joke. They have arrested my cousin, and I’m going to be defending him.”
“Your cousin Moses, who’s always getting drunk?”
“That’s the one. Someone saw him wandering in the vicinity of the crime earlier in the evening, and when they picked him up and questioned him he couldn’t remember a damned thing.”
“I wish you luck,” I said.
“I need more than luck,” said Joshua. “I need your input.”
“I’m an historian!” I snapped. “What the hell do I know about mutilated corpses?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Something, I hope.”
“All right,” I said. “Man or woman?”
“Neither.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The proper question is: male or female? It’s female.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone sneaked into the game park about three hours ago—I haven’t figured out how he breached the force field yet—but the end result is that he killed and mutilated a rhinoceros.”
“A rhinoceros,” I repeated stupidly.
He nodded affirmatively. “Killed her with a poisoned dart, and after she was dead the killer cut off her horns.”
“You need a psychiatrist, Joshua, not an historian,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “But I wanted to talk to you first. This wasn’t a case of self-defense, David. It was premeditated.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you don’t go walking around innocently at night, or any other time, with poisoned darts. Also, the killer stayed around long enough to cut off the horns—and very neatly, too. Clearly he didn’t want to damage them. I can imagine someone being in a rage after barely escaping a rhino charge and somehow killing the animal…but then he wouldn’t have been so meticulous cutting off the horns. So it’s got to be premeditated.”
