The Arkana Mysteries Boxed Set

by N. S. Wikarski

  “It is interesting that prior to the rain queens, the Balobedu had gone patristic but eventually returned to their matrilineal roots,” Oluoma said.

  “There are other instances of female authority. The queen mothers of Benin for example,” Griffin continued. “The queen mother wasn’t simply a figurehead. In a close parallel to the mother of the sultan of the Ottoman Empire, she maintained her own court and played an active role in the government of the kingdom. And then, of course, there are the Dahomey Amazons.”

  “The what?” Cassie peered at Griffin with curiosity.

  “The name ‘Amazon’ was given to them by Europeans, as you might expect. Until the end of the nineteenth century, they were known as the warrior women of Dahomey. Traditionally, they acted as the king’s bodyguard, but they also comprised one-third of the Dahomian army and participated in many of the kingdom’s wars. Male enemies learned to fear their formidable battle skills. The last Amazon died in 1979.”

  Cassie became temporarily distracted by the increasingly hilly terrain through which they were travelling. She could see mountains off in the distance which were probably part of the Cross River National Park. She’d skimmed a travel book the night before that described the park. It consisted of tropical rain forest, but the mountains to the north supposedly afforded a much cooler climate than the endless summer near the coast. The summits of the mountains were enveloped in fog. Maybe it really was cooler up there, Cassie thought. She switched her attention back to her companions.

  Oluoma was still speaking. “And there are dozens of other cases of women behaving in ways that would never have been sanctioned by a typical overlord society. I’ll give you an example from my own backyard. I come from the Igbo tribe which is very numerous in this part of Nigeria. Although my tribe has many branches and some of them have turned patriarchal, Igbo women have always occupied a strong social position. They possess their own kinship and market networks and have always controlled their own agricultural products. These were never considered part of their husband’s property. When the British came to rule Nigeria, they approached matters much as any other overlord culture would.” Oluoma darted a glance at Griffin in the rear-view mirror. “No offense, my dear boy,”

  “None taken,” the scrivener replied. “I don’t particularly identify with the imperial phase of my nation’s history.”

  Oluoma continued. “The British assumed that Igbo males were the decision-makers and ignored the opinion of the women.” She chuckled. “That was a very risky approach to take, as they soon learned. In 1914, the British divided southeast Nigeria, or Igboland, into several regions and appointed what they called native ‘warrant chiefs’ to oversee the affairs of different regions. Many of the warrant chiefs were guilty of corruption and abuses specifically aimed at women. They would confiscate women’s property for no reason and force them into marriages without their consent. This offensive situation went on for years and finally reached a crisis over taxation.

  “In 1929, the British ordered a census of Igbo women’s property, and suspicion grew that a women’s tax might be instituted even though the British had promised never to tax women’s property. A dispute arose between a census taker and an elderly woman when she was told to count her possessions. Word traveled quickly from one market town to another that the women might be taxed, so they decided to do something about it. They organized. Ten thousand women demonstrated in front of the district administration office and demanded that their warrant chief give them a letter saying that their possessions would not be taxed. He refused until the British intervened and ordered him to produce the letter. The warrant chief didn’t like being forced to meet the women’s demands, so he retaliated by taking several protest leaders hostage. When news of this outrage spread, the protest swelled, and demonstrators demanded his removal from office. Amazingly enough, the British agreed.

  “Word traveled quickly to other districts, and soon Igbo women everywhere were staging demonstrations complaining of their treatment under British rule. They wanted assurances that they would not be taxed and also wanted corrupt warrant chiefs removed from office. Their campaign came to be known as ogu umunwanye—the women’s war. In fact, they dressed as warriors, painting their faces and wrapping their heads in fern leaves. Although their action was a shock to the British, it was a traditional form of protest among the Igbo. The women were engaging in a practice called ‘sitting on a man.’”

  “You’re kidding.” Cassie giggled at the image.

  “They didn’t physically sit on him, of course.” Oluoma smiled. “It’s just an old expression. The idea was to put pressure on a man as a way of correcting his bad behavior. Igbo women were traditionally considered to be the guardians of proper conduct. Whenever a man acted in a disrespectful manner, the women would follow him around and sing mocking songs about him. This was intended to make him reflect on what he had done. They would chant outside his home day and night and completely disrupt his life. In extreme cases, they would burn down his hut.

  “Because Igbo women had suffered abuses at the hands of the warrant chiefs, they saw their protest as just. They burnt several district offices as an extension of the idea of burning a man’s hut. The British, of course, didn’t understand that this behavior had a long history among the Igbo. To them, it seemed like crazy savages acting up. Eventually, troops were ordered in to control the protests. They shot into crowds of women, killing fifty and injuring fifty more.

  “The killings ended the protests, but significant changes came as a result. The warrant chief system was abolished, and women remained exempt from taxation. Igbo women continued to lead protests periodically over the next several decades which resulted in even more social reform.”

  Oluoma stopped speaking abruptly. She consulted a road sign as it loomed into view. “Well, this trip passed in a hurry, didn’t it? It would seem we’ve arrived. Here we are in Alok.”

  Chapter 16—Thumb Place

  Their guide apparently knew her way around the village. She made a few decisive turns and parked the car in front of a walled enclosure.

  “Now you will see the akwanshi—the ancestors. That’s what the Ekoi people call them anyway.” Oluoma led the way into the enclosure which proved to be a park planted with orange trees and a variety of shrubs.

  Whatever Cassie had expected to see, it wasn’t this. They were confronted with several carved stones, none more than three feet high, sticking out of the ground like giant thumbs. The Arkana team clustered around one.

  Griffin bent down to get a better look. “I say, this is extraordinary.” He tentatively touched the swirls carved into the stone.

  Each of the monoliths bore similar markings—a face with round eyes and a mouth shaped into a large, surprised O. The back and sides of the figures were decorated with spirals, chevrons and what appeared to be some unknown script. Each face was different.

  “These are made of basalt,” Oluoma explained. “Similar carved stones are scattered throughout the villages and countryside close to the big town of Ikom. That’s why they are known as the Ikom monoliths. Some are in the middle of villages, like here. Others are on the outskirts and still used as gathering places for local ceremonies. They were all originally positioned in concentric circles, but that arrangement was disturbed long ago. Many have disappeared altogether.”

  “I guess their size makes them a little easier to carry off than the megaliths we’ve been dealing with til now,” Cassie observed.

  Griffin unexpectedly sat down cross-legged in front of one of the carvings and stared at the face intently.

  “You trying to talk to it?” Erik asked skeptically.

  “No, I’m trying to remember something,” Griffin replied absently. “Something quite familiar.”

  The others gathered around him in silence.

  After a few moments, he looked up at his companions eagerly. “I have it! The fish goddess of Lepenski Vir.”

  “The what now?”
Erik inquired.

  “The face looked so familiar to me. I knew I’d seen a series of carvings that look almost like this. They came from a dig in Yugoslavia dated around 6000 BCE. And it isn’t simply the face. The geometric decorations are also quite similar.” He spoke more rapidly as his excitement grew. “Yes, yes, and now that I think of it I can recall another. A bird goddess statue found in the south of France around 4000 BCE. And of course, some of the abstract designs at Gobekli Tepe are very much like this.”

  “You mean that place in Turkey?” Cassie asked. “That one’s about eleven thousand years old.”

  “Quite right,” Griffin confirmed.

  “What you say is very interesting,” Oluoma commented. “These Ikom stones have been dated anywhere from 200 CE to 1000 CE.”

  “But that means the Minoans couldn’t have seen them,” Erik objected. “We’re looking for rocks that would have been positioned at least three thousand years ago.”

  Oluoma gave him a knowing smile. “Fortunately for you, there are many who disagree with the estimated age of these sculptures. Some believe them to be much older. In fact, a Nigerian academic recently put forth a theory that they may be eleven thousand years old.”

  Griffin nodded approvingly. “Well, that would dovetail nicely with the dating of Gobekli Tepe.”

  “Ah, but there’s more to the theory than their great age,” Oluoma continued. “It is believed that these monoliths were erected by a lost civilization that flourished before the days of the pharaohs. Right where modern-day Calabar stands, in fact. A civilization so advanced that its inventions and ideas were carried far from here by land and sea.”

  “A sophisticated sea-faring culture on the west African coast,” Erik said pensively. “Maybe that explains the Olmec stone faces with African features found in Mexico.”

  Oluoma stared down at the monolith before her. “Some of the writing on these stones has been matched to Sumerian cuneiform and the Hebrew Kabbalah.”

  “Not to mention the Vinca sacred script of old Europe,” Griffin added, tracing a particular swirl pattern on the side of the monolith.

  “So, what happened to this civilization?” Cassie urged.

  Their guide shrugged expressively. “The same thing that has happened to so many other lost civilizations around the world—flood.”

  Griffin continued tracing the geometric script on the stone. “Given what we know about the super-floods at the end of the last ice age, one or more of them might have been severe enough to raise global ocean levels. They might well have destroyed any coastal cities in this region.”

  “There are ruins scattered all over the floor of the Altantic,” Oluoma said. “Canyons where there should be no canyons. Trees where there should be no trees. Pyramids, roads, all underwater. For those who believe in the inundation of Atlantis, the lost civilization of Nigeria is no more fanciful.”

  “Less and less fanciful every day,” the scrivener observed. “Now that we have more sophisticated means of detecting objects far underwater, new architectural anomalies are coming to light all over the planet. Perhaps soon something will be found off the coast of Nigeria to prove your theory.”

  “Or better yet, archaeologists will make some progress on what is buried beneath our feet,” Oluoma retorted. “Thus far, very little has been accomplished. That’s one of the issues my team is here to assess—the state of archaeological discovery in this country. For example, we know the Nok culture created sophisticated terra cotta figurines and had the technology to smelt iron in 1400 BCE, but nobody knows where their knowledge came from.” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “It’s all speculation because so little digging has actually been done in this region.”

  While they were speaking, Cassie had wandered off to another monolith tilted forlornly against the base of a huge tree. The elements had worn away its carved features and given them a spectral quality. The figure’s wide-eyed expression and gaping mouth seemed comically ghostlike. Cassie laid the palm of her hand on the figure’s head. She felt nothing.

  Swatting languidly at the mosquitoes that seemed to sprout from the oppressively humid air, she drifted back to her companions. They were still engaged in a lively debate about the current state of archaeological research in West Africa.

  Glancing in the pythia’s direction, Oluoma said diplomatically, “But none of you came here to listen to my stories of lost cities. Perhaps we should search these monoliths for the Minoan symbols you told me about.”

  “It wouldn’t help,” Cassie murmured.

  They all turned to look at her with blank surprise.

  She gave a half-hearted smile. “The Minoans haven’t been here.”

  “Then we should go to the next village,” Oluoma urged. “There are monoliths scattered all around this area.”

  Cassie shook her head. “No, I mean the Minoans haven’t been within a hundred miles of here. I can feel it.”

  Her listeners traded uncertain glances.

  Erik kicked irritably at the grass underfoot. “That’s just swell. I can’t wait to call Maddie and tell her. I’ll be deaf by the time she’s through with me.”

  Griffin sprang to his feet. “There’s no need to contact her just yet. Why not wait until we have some useful information to convey?”

  Erik was silent a moment, considering the possibility. “There are some stone circles in Senegal and Gambia. We should check those out next. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

  The scrivener frowned. “I rather think our best chance would be to have a look at the monoliths around Bouar in the Central African Republic. After all, they lie at the geographic center of the continent and were erected as part of an ancient survey done thousands of years ago. They seem the more likely prospect.”

  Both men turned questioningly to the pythia.

  “Cass, do you get any vibe about which way we should go?” Erik asked hopefully. “What’s it gonna be? West or east?”

  The young woman rubbed her head distractedly. “I’m not picking up anything right now but a whole lot of static. I think I need to step back. Give me the night to sleep on it, and maybe tomorrow morning I’ll get a feel for what we should do.”

  It was a tribute to Cassie’s hard-won credibility that no one even bothered to question her hunches anymore. Wordlessly, they all trudged back to the car for the long return trip to Calabar.

  Chapter 17—Accomplice After the Artifact

  Daniel strode up the escalator two stairs at a time. He glanced at his watch. It was already eleven in the morning. Surely, today David would be back at his post in the ancient history section of the library. Daniel’s eagerness was motivated by something more than the desire to see his friend. He had an important question to ask. He headed for the reference desk without his usual hesitation. His pulse quickened when he spied David standing behind the counter, engrossed in reading a catalog.

  Daniel’s eyes immediately gravitated to the librarian’s apparel. He had begun to pay attention to attire now that he’d spent more time in the outer world. Although the scion was no great judge of such matters, the words that best described David’s style of clothing would have been casual elegance. Today he wore dark woolen trousers and a moss green cardigan which Daniel recognized as cashmere. Beneath it was a striped button-down shirt left open at the collar to reveal a small gold necklace. Ruefully thinking of his own black suit, white shirt, and black tie, Daniel recalled that Leroy Hunt referred to such garb as a “funeral suit.” He no longer felt inclined to disagree with the mercenary. He wished he knew how to dress better.

  The fashion plate looked up and smiled when he saw who was approaching. “Hey there, stranger. Long time no see.”

  Daniel shifted his attention from his friend’s clothes to his physical attributes. The librarian’s eyes were a shade of blue which Daniel had only seen when gazing out over the Aegean Sea. The young man’s hair was a mass of golden waves worn just long enough to curl around his collar.
His square jawline terminated in a perfect cleft chin. He reminded Daniel of one of the seraphim pictured in his father’s holy books.

  “H... hi,” the scion managed to mumble. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks for asking.” The librarian flashed a brilliant smile. “That’s what I get for partying too hard over the weekend.”

  The dazzling smile made it even harder for Daniel to concentrate. “I... I’m glad you’re better, David,” he stammered.

  His friend regarded him with amusement. “How long have you been coming to the library? Almost a year now, isn’t it?”

  The scion quailed. Perhaps he was going to be told to leave. “Uh... close to a year. That is, um, I think so.”

  The librarian leaned forward over the counter and whispered confidentially, “People who see me as often as you do get to call me Chris.”

  “Chris?” Daniel replied uncertainly. “Why would they do that?”

  “Don’t be a silly. You know ‘Christian’ is my last name.”

  “It is?” Daniel asked in puzzlement.

  “I told you that the first day we met.”

  Daniel blushed in embarrassment. “Oh, I thought you meant you were a Christian.”

  The librarian chuckled. “Well, I am a Christian. I’m a member of a family whose name happens to be Christian.”

  “But you were wearing a cross around your neck the first time I saw you,” Daniel protested in confusion.

  “And today I’m wearing an ankh—the Egyptian symbol of eternal life. See.” He held out the gold pendant around his neck, so Daniel could inspect it more closely. “Cross, ankh. They’re all just accessories.”

  “My mistake.” Daniel stepped back a pace. “But why don’t you like ‘David’? I think it’s a very nice name. Regal, like King David from the Bible.”