Changer's Daughter

by Jane Lindskold

  “She did it,” Oya corrects gently. “Oya did it.”

  “The phone’s not working either,” Eddie says, setting the receiver back in its cradle. “No phone, no radio, no television, no electricity, and now this odd windstorm. I wonder what will happen next?”

  Anson turns from the window. “We will get electricity once more. Shango will see to that—it is his responsibility. Telephone,” he shrugs. “Who can say, eh?”

  Dakar Agadez reenters the room, waits impatiently for Anson to finish speaking. His posture is changed. No longer is he mournful Ogun, drunk as much with grief as with wine. He is Ogun the hunter, Ogun the guide, Ogun the soldier, back from reconnoitering the situation.

  “It started at dawn,” he reports. “I’ve been talking with some market women who were setting up their food stalls for the morning trade. Soon after false dawn, the harmattan lessened, then stilled. Then a terrible tornado spread until it split, becoming this wall.

  “After I’d heard all the market women had to tell, I walked to the edge of the city, over to where one of the checkpoints is. Police Chief Otun Maluu was there with some of his men. I stood and watched while they tried various things, but the long and short of it is, no one can leave Monamona.”

  Anson chews his lower lip. “In many ways, that is a good thing. If no one can leave, then neither can Regis send out his diseases. Our enemy is somewhat neutralized, eh?”

  “Na,” Dakar agrees, and would say more but Eddie interrupts.

  “Wait a second! Before we start congratulating ourselves on Regis being neutralized, I want to know, which one of you did this?”

  Dakar looks at Anson, only to find Anson looking at him. There is a surprised pause that Anson breaks with hearty laughter.

  “Neither you nor me, then,” he says. “Shango, perhaps? This is his city.”

  As if to confirm his guess, at that moment the lights come on again.

  “But how?” Eddie bulls on stubbornly. “How could he create a wind like this?”

  Anson grins and flips his palms out in a gesture expressing ignorance. “Who knows? Magical spells have never been my strong point, just a few little tricks and illusions. Shango, though, has always been able to tap strong powers like the lightning.”

  Dakar shakes his massive head. “No. Shango has never had the wind. In myth, the lightning and thunder were Shango’s. Oya had the wind.”

  “Oya?” Eddie says. “Anson, you mentioned her a few days ago, didn’t you? She was...” He remembers now and pauses in embarrassment, but it is too late to retreat, “married to both Shango and Ogun.”

  “Oya never existed,” Anson insists quickly, before Dakar can retort, “at least not as the name of an athanor. She was just the remarkable focus of a conglomeration of incredible legends. Right, Dakar?”

  Dakar shakes his head stubbornly. “Shango has never had the wind. The wind belongs to Oya.”

  A knock on the door sounds, then the doorknob turns, and a hooded and cloaked figure, bent nearly double at the waist, slips inside. Even before the door has shut behind it, Eddie has a gun in his hand.

  Dakar is more direct. Reaching out a massive hand, he clamps the figure behind the neck and lifts. The motion is like a cat lifting a mouse and the intention apparently the same, but before Dakar can snap the intruder’s neck, the hood falls back, revealing the curled locks and handsome features of Shango.

  Dakar’s fist opens and he drops the other athanor as he might have a viper. Shango catches himself before he hits the floor and looks up from a crouch, a rueful expression on his face.

  “I should have called ahead,” he says, “but the phones were not working, and I could not trust a messenger. Which one of you did this thing? And how could you take such a step without notifying me first?”

  Three dark faces study him blankly, then Anson says slowly:

  “So it wasn’t you?”

  “No!” Shango shakes his head. “Don’t you know your Yoruban mythology? Oya has the wind, not Shango.”

  He frowns as he notices that none of the others are laughing at his joke.

  “Oddly enough,” Eddie explains, “we were just debating that issue. Dakar seems to have won the point.”

  Dakar bobs an ironic bow, but his gaze remains fastened on Shango as if sorry he hadn’t snapped his neck.

  “So,” he rumbles, “if you did not do it, and we did not do it, then who did do it?”

  “A neat question,” Anson says, “and one we must answer without delay. Shango, who else of power resides in Monamona?”

  “No one that I know,” Shango says, rising from his crouch and going to sit on the edge of one of the beds. “There are a few athanor animals—a lizard, a couple of birds—but as far as I know, there are no other human-form athanor here except for ourselves.”

  “Could it be humans with magical power?” Eddie asks, for these are known, though such powers are far rarer among humans than among the athanor.

  Shango shrugs. “There are some, mostly some market witches and diviners—maybe a street performer with a bit of magical charisma, but, as I said, no one of great power that I know.”

  “No one,” Dakar says. “No one that you know. No one that I know. Anson?”

  The Spider shakes his head.

  “But,” Dakar continues pedantically, “there must be someone, for someone has raised this wind.”

  “True enough,” Shango says. “I had not started inquiries because I was certain that one of you was the cause and I did not want anyone looking for you. Now...”

  “Now,” Eddie says firmly, “we must find who has caused this. He could be a potent ally—certainly he cannot be ignored. Normally, I’d start searching databases for an athanor who might fit the bill. The phone’s down, though, so I can’t link to the Pendragon Productions databases. I certainly didn’t bring those files on vacation. Any thoughts on how we should proceed?”

  “Asking questions,” Anson says. “Dakar has made a good start. By now the marketplaces will be full of gossip. The places of worship will be packed, too.”

  “I can check with my government contacts,” Shango says, “now that I know you are not responsible.”

  “Wait!” Anson warns. “Don’t look too hard in that direction. If the wind worker is someone we can ally ourselves with, we don’t want Regis to get wind of him—or her. If you must make some motion of looking for someone who raised a storm, do it badly. Wasn’t your current identity educated abroad?”

  Shango nods.

  “Then talk like an educated man,” Anson says. “Mock superstition. Use big words like meteorology, convection currents, thermodynamics, and atmospheric circulation. Make speeches. Meanwhile, we will do the looking.”

  Again Shango nods, but this time he is smiling.

  “I can do that. It should be fun.” He puts on a pompous expression and speaks through his nose. “I was educated at Oxford, sir, and I tell you this is merely a minor meteorological event, a thermoscopic shift, perhaps anticipating a pluviometric situation clashing with local restive air.”

  Eddie grins. “That doesn’t make much sense, but it sounds great. Can you pull it off?”

  Shango grins happily. “In my sleep. The only difficulty will be keeping from laughing where anyone can hear.”

  “Very good,” Anson says, all but shoving Shango out the door. “Put up your hood and go. Leave us to find this weather worker.”

  “You will tell me what you find?” Shango asks, covering his head.

  “We will.”

  When Shango is gone, Anson turns to the other two.

  “Shall we seek news together or separately?”

  “Separately,” Dakar says. “We will cover more ground. We can meet here in a few hours.”

  Eddie nods agreement. He has been in Nigeria long enough now that he feels comfortable both with Monamona and with his new persona.

  “I wish we had television,” he says as he puts on his shoes. “I’d love to see what the world news is making
of this.”

  “I doubt they’ve even noticed,” Anson replies. “Who ever notices what happens in Africa? A tragedy involving a single child becomes news in the United States, but a famine that devastates thousands of African children is never mentioned.”

  Dakar agrees. “A few meteorologists are going to be damn puzzled, but I doubt anyone else will ever hear.”

  “Won’t the Nigerian government ask for help?” Eddie asks.

  “Help for what? Dealing with a windstorm?” Dakar guffaws. “They’d be afraid of getting laughed at. Besides, asking for help would be showing weakness, and the only reason for showing weakness is to get foreign-aid money.

  “No, for a while at least, the Nigerian government will stand and wait and watch. Remember, even in Yorubaland, Monamona is not the first city in size or importance. It doesn’t even have a college.”

  Eddie nods, remembering things that he has long chosen to store at the back of his memory.

  “I guess you’re right,” he says. “That leaves it up to us.”

  “I’ll take the market again,” Dakar says.

  Anson nods. “And I’ll take the orisha shrines. Eddie, that leaves the churches and mosques for you.”

  “Good,” Eddie grins. “In my life I’ve pretended to practice so many different religions that I can pass as a member of any and all.”

  “Meet here in three hours,” Dakar orders, very much military Ogun.

  Anson twinkles. “I’ll bring lunch.”

  In an office decorated in pure white, Lil Prima leans back in a chair upholstered in fine-grained leather and smiles at the man behind the desk.

  Almost without volition, he smiles back, his teeth as white as his carpeting, his hair silvery. His suit is not white, but the precise shade dictated by the fashion of the moment, tailored by a shop that considers Armani one step from off the rack.

  Normally, he considers himself the alpha-alpha in a world where men act far more ruthlessly than wolves. Today, however, he feels like he’s back in third grade with Mrs. Grundy the Formidable glowering at him from across the desk. The problem is, he has no idea why.

  Lil Prima is beautiful, but almost every woman he encounters in the entertainment industry is beautiful. Those who are not signal danger, for their lack of physical advantage means that they made it to where they are by ability alone—always a frightening prospect.

  But Lil Prima is beautiful: golden hair, green eyes, a figure that makes every fashion model he’s ever dated seem like a cardboard cutout. Her voice is spiced with a delicious hint of a French accent. She’s wearing a dress with a skirt so short that he can’t avoid staring at her perfect legs, opaque stockings, and a few highlights in expensive jewelry.

  And when she smiles he has to glance at the notes he jotted before this meeting so he won’t forget what he was talking about. Why should such a delicious number make him feel like a boy—or like a randy adolescent with his mind in his crotch?

  Clearing his throat he says, “As I was saying, since Blind Lion has had to cancel...”

  “A pity, that,” Lil purrs, “about how the lead singer gets the laryngitis and the drummer falls and breaks his arm, no?”

  “No.” The man shakes his head. “I mean, yes, a great pity. However, what it means is that an entire string of concert dates just opened up.”

  “What would you like me to do for you?” Lil asks, green eyes pools in which he could drown.

  The man bites his lip before his automatic response can come forth, a response that would have nothing at all to do with concert dates, and quite a lot to do with things more primal.

  “I’d like you to arrange for Tommy Thunderburst’s Pan tour to take the road a few weeks early. We’ll find someone to fill in for his dates. Maybe Blind Lion will be ready by then.”

  “Oui,” Lil answers, “maybe so. What will you give us if we do this great favor for you?”

  The man blinks. He’s not used to this. The Blind Lion tour is far more extensive, far higher profile than the Pan tour would have been, but this woman is acting as if she would be doing him a favor. For a single moment, he gets angry enough that he forgets her charm; then she smiles and her full lips pout just a little and he’s wondering if she just might be free for lunch.

  “Well,” he says, “perhaps we can discuss what you need over lunch?” He names a restaurant so high-profile and so expensive that the waiting list for tables is months long. Lil actually pauses to consider.

  “I might do that,” she says, “but first, promise me that if I convince Tommy to take this earlier date, you will make certain arrangements for us.”

  “Arrangements?” he says, his hand already on the phone to tell his secretary to make certain his table is being held.

  “Oui, for security. Tommy is a great artiste and we have some surprises that we do not wish... unveiled.”

  The way she pauses before the word “unveiled” sends images into the exec’s mind, very distracting images.

  “Unveiled?” he says, and his voice is a croak.

  “Is that not the word?” she asks. “Revealed. Unmasked. Stripped naked. Non?”

  “Right.” The man presses down the intercom button. “Sarah, make certain my table is ready and have the limousine brought around.”

  Lil leans forward, preparatory to rising. “Then I have your promise?”

  “My promise,” he says, then, almost without volition, his hand strays to paper and pen. “Let me give it to you in writing.”

  Lil smiles. Males are so easy to manipulate. It’s hardly worth the effort, but it’s fun, too.

  Something is definitely up. Katsuhiro notices when the harmattan ceases to blow, but his first real proof of some major disturbance is when Regis fails to follow up on the previous day’s meeting.

  He had waited in solitude for a full day, his isolation broken only by the arrival of his meals. The guards who deliver his tray won’t tell him anything, but he can tell by the wideness of their dark eyes and the nervousness of their motions that something has frightened them badly.

  Midmorning the following day, young Taiwo Fadaka drops in for a chat. The young man is apparently as agitated as the guards, but he hides his feelings better. His urbane poise is marred, however, by the way he fidgets: pouring a glass of water, lighting a cigarette, shifting his seat in his chair. Despite this, Katsuhiro is happy for his company.

  “Have you heard about the change in the weather?” Taiwo asks.

  “I noticed that the winds have dropped,” Katsuhiro replies. “Is this unusual?”

  “Very, but they have not dropped,” Taiwo’s tones soften, like a professional storyteller drawing his audience in. “They have changed.”

  He pauses for effect, then says succinctly, “We are trapped by a wall of wind. The babalawo say that it is Oya’s doing. The preachers call it the wrath of God. The imam say Allah is holding his breath. I call it damned inconvenient.”

  Taiwo’s accent, Katsuhiro notes, becomes more British when he is distancing himself from local beliefs. The boy is scared, then, very scared. Katsuhiro pretends not to notice this, instead concentrating on learning as much as he can about the wall of wind. Within twenty minutes, he knows all that Taiwo can tell him.

  “Damned inconvenient,” Taiwo repeats, this time sounding as if he means it. “Just when business was getting nicely under way. I can’t even get the stock market reports.”

  “Yes, quite inconvenient,” Katsuhiro agrees, but his meaning is quite different. As he sees it now, the inconvenience is all on Regis’s side. As long as the wall of wind lasts, the Chief General Doctor cannot communicate with the outside world and as long as he cannot do that, Japan is safe from his threat.

  There are too many uncertain elements for Katsuhiro to escape immediately, but he can begin to plan. Perhaps Teresa will be an ally, perhaps even this Taiwo can be turned to his use. If only he knew how long this wall of wind would last! If only Regis’s guards were less trigger-happy!

  Even wit
h such uncertainties to plague him, for the first time since he has been taken captive, Katsuhiro feels himself again, free to act without worrying that his impulsiveness will cause the death of a nation.

  “Yes,” he repeats, “very inconvenient, indeed. Still, we must resign ourselves to the turning of the Wheel. Would you care to pass the time with a few hands of cards?”

  The November Colorado air, even at midday, holds a crispness that speaks of winter rather than autumn. Still, the day is sunny enough that for hard work Wayne Watkins has stripped to the garishly striped shirtsleeves of an old Western shirt.

  Along with the Mexican he has hired as foreman, he jounces about his newly hired land in a four-wheel-drive pickup truck. The foreman, Jesus Carlos Martinez, sits in the passenger seat, stolidly soaking up the jolts. He would have been the better one to drive, since he’s been living out here for the past several days and has had a chance to learn the temper of the land, but he knows better than to argue with his boss.

  So far, the arrangement between them suits them both fairly well. Wayne likes having power over those who work for him and, short of holding an inheritance over their heads, as he does with his kids, he’s found that the best way to have power over his employees is to know something about them that they wouldn’t want widely known.

  Jesus Carlos Martinez is an illegal alien, a wetback as Wayne frequently reminds him. He has aged parents back in Mexico who rely on him for support, as well as a wife and three young children he dreams of bringing to the United States. This is a suitable whip for Wayne to hold over his head, a whip sharp enough that Jesus tolerates Wayne’s crude humor and occasional incompetence. The paycheck is good and steady, and Jesus is saving for the day he can leave.

  “How’s the grazing, Hey?” Wayne asks. His fundamentalist Baptist upbringing cringes at the thought of calling a Mexican “Jesus,” even when the name is pronounced “Hey-soose.” He’d tried “Carlos” or “Carl” but the dumb greaser hadn’t seemed to know that was his name. He uses “Martinez” sometimes, but it doesn’t crack the whip the same as calling a man by his first name when he’s gotta call you “Mister.”