Kirinyaga

by Mike Resnick

  I shrugged. “My degrees did not help me become a better mundu-mugu” I said. “The time was wasted.”

  “You keep using that word. What, exactly, is a mundumuguV

  “You would call him a witch doctor,” I answered. “But in truth the mundumugu, while he occasionally casts spells and interprets omens, is more a repository of the collected wisdom and traditions of his race.”

  “It sounds like an interesting occupation,” she said.

  “It is not without its compensations.”

  “And such compensations!” she said with false enthusiasm as a goat bleated in the distance and a young man yelled at it in Swahili. “Imagine having the power of life and death over an entire Eutopian world!”

  So now it comes, I thought. Aloud I said: “It is not a matter of exercising power, Memsaab Eaton, but of maintaining traditions.”

  “I rather doubt that,” she said bluntly.

  “Why should you doubt what I say?” I asked.

  “Because if it were traditional to kill newborn infants, the Kiku-yus would have died out after a single generation.”

  “If the slaying of the infant arouses your disapproval,” I said calmly, “I am surprised Maintenance has not previously asked about our custom of leaving the old and the feeble out for the hyenas.”

  “We know that the elderly and the infirm have consented to your treatment of them, much as we may disapprove of it,” she replied. “We also know that a newborn infant could not possibly consent to its own death.” She paused, staring at me. “May I ask why this particular baby was killed?”

  “That is why you have come here, is it not?”

  “I have been sent here to evaluate the situation,” she replied, brushing an insect from her cheek and shifting her position on the ground. “A newborn child was killed. We would like to know why.”

  I shrugged. “It was killed because it was born with a terrible thahu upon it.”

  She frowned. “A thahu? What is that?”

  “A curse.”

  “Do you mean that it was deformed?” she asked.

  “It was not deformed.”

  “Then what was this curse that you refer to?”

  “It was born feetfirst,” I said.

  “That's it?” she asked, surprised. “That's the curse?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was murdered simply because it came out feetfirst?”

  “It is not murder to put a demon to death,” I explained patiently “Our tradition tells us that a child born in this manner is actually a demon.”

  “You are an educated man, Koriba,” she said. “How can you kill a perfectly healthy infant and blame it on some primitive tradition?”

  “You must never underestimate the power of tradition, Memsaab Eaton,” I said. “The Kikuyu turned their backs on their traditions once; the result is a mechanized, impoverished, overcrowded country that is no longer populated by Kikuyu, or Maasai, or Luo, or Wa-kamba, but by a new, artificial tribe known only as Kenyans. We here on Kirinyaga are true Kikuyu, and we will not make that mistake again. If the rains are late, a ram must be sacrificed. If a man's veracity is questioned, he must undergo the ordeal of the githani trial. If an infant is born with a thahu upon it, it must be put to death.”

  “Then you intend to continue to kill any children that are born feetfirst?” she asked.

  “That is correct,” I responded.

  A drop of sweat rolled down her face as she looked directly at me and said: “I don't know what Maintenance's reaction will be.”

  “According to our charter, Maintenance is not permitted to interfere with us,” I reminded her.

  “It's not that simple, Koriba,” she said. “According to your charter, any member of your community who wishes to leave your world is allowed free passage to Haven, from which he or she can board a ship to Earth.” She paused. “Was the baby you killed given such a choice?”

  “I did not kill a baby, but a demon,” I replied, turning my head slightly as a hot breeze stirred up the dust around us.

  She waited until the breeze died down, then coughed before speaking. “You do understand that not everyone in Maintenance may share that opinion?”

  “What Maintenance thinks is of no concern to us,” I said.

  “When innocent children are murdered, what Maintenance thinks is of supreme importance to you,” she responded. “I am sure you do not want to defend your practices in the Eutopian Court.”

  “Are you here to evaluate the situation, as you said, or to threaten us?” I asked calmly.

  “To evaluate the situation,” she replied. “But there seems to be only one conclusion that I can draw from the facts that you have presented to me.”

  “Then you have not been listening to me,” I said, briefly closing my eyes as another, stronger breeze swept past us.

  “Koriba, I know that Kirinyaga was created so that you could emulate the ways of your forefathers—but surely you must see the difference between the torture of animals as a religious ritual and the murder of a human baby.”

  I shook my head. “They are one and the same,” I replied. “We cannot change our way of life because it makes you uncomfortable. We did that once before, and within a mere handful of years your culture had corrupted our society. With every factory we built, with every job we created, with every bit of Western technology we accepted, with every Kikuyu who converted to Christianity, we became something we were not meant to be.” I stared directly into her eyes. “I am the mundumugu, entrusted with preserving all that makes us Kikuyu, and I will not allow that to happen again.”

  “There are alternatives,” she said.

  “Not for the Kikuyu,” I replied adamantly.

  “There are” she insisted, so intent upon what she had to say that she paid no attention to a black-and-gold centipede that crawled over her boot. “For example, years spent in space can cause certain physiological and hormonal changes in humans. You noted when I arrived that I am forty-one years old and childless. That is true. In fact, many of the women in Maintenance are childless. If you will turn the babies over to us, I am sure we can find families for them. This would effectively remove them from your society without the necessity of killing them. I could speak to my superiors about it; I think that there is an excellent chance that they would approve.”

  “That is a thoughtful and innovative suggestion, Memsaab Eaton,” I said truthfully. “I am sorry that I must reject it.”

  “But why?” she demanded.

  “Because the first time we betray our traditions this world will cease to be Kirinyaga, and will become merely another Kenya, a nation of men awkwardly pretending to be something they are not.”

  “I could speak to Koinnage and the other chiefs about it,” she suggested meaningfully.

  “They will not disobey my instructions,” I replied confidently.

  “You hold that much power?”

  “I hold that much respect,” I answered. “A chief may enforce the law, but it is the mundumugu who interprets it.”

  “Then let us consider other alternatives.”

  “No.”

  “I am trying to avoid a conflict between Maintenance and your people,” she said, her voice heavy with frustration. “It seems to me that you could at least make the effort to meet me halfway.”

  “I do not question your motives, Memsaab Eaton,” I replied, “but you are an intruder representing an organization that has no legal right to interfere with our culture. We do not impose our religion or our morality upon Maintenance, and Maintenance may not impose its religion or morality upon us.”

  “It's not that simple.”

  “It is precisely that simple,” I said.

  “That is your last word on the subject?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She stood up. “Then I think it is time for me to leave and make my report.”

  I stood up as well, and a shift in the wind brought the odors of the village: the scent of bananas, the smell of
a fresh caldron of pombe, even the pungent odor of a bull that had been slaughtered that morning.

  “As you wish, Memsaab Eaton,” I said. “I will arrange for your escort.” I signaled to a small boy who was tending three goats and instructed him to go to the village and send back two young men.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I know it's an inconvenience, but I just don't feel safe with hyenas roaming loose out there.”

  “You are welcome,” I said. “Perhaps, while we are waiting for the men who will accompany you, you would like to hear a story about the hyena.”

  She shuddered involuntarily. “They are such ugly beasts!” she said distastefully “Their hind legs seem almost deformed.” She shook her head. “No, I don't think I'd be interested in hearing a story about a hyena.”

  “You will be interested in this story,” I told her.

  She stared at me curiously, then shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “It is true that hyenas are deformed, ugly animals,” I began, “but once, a long time ago, they were as lovely and graceful as the impala. Then one day a Kikuyu chief gave a hyena a young goat to take as a gift to Ngai, who lived atop the holy mountain Kirinyaga. The hyena took the goat between his powerful jaws and headed toward the distant mountain—but on the way he passed a settlement filled with Europeans and Arabs. It abounded in guns and machines and other wonders he had never seen before, and he stopped to look, fascinated. Finally an Arab noticed him staring intently and asked if he, too, would like to become a civilized man—and as he opened his mouth to say that he would, the goat fell to the ground and ran away. As the goat raced out of sight, the Arab laughed and explained that he was only joking, that of course no hyena could become a man.” I paused for a moment, and then continued. “So the hyena proceeded to Kirinyaga, and when he reached the summit, Ngai asked him what had become of the goat. When the hyena told him, Ngai hurled him off the mountaintop for having the audacity to believe he could become a man. He did not die from the fall, but his rear legs were crippled, and Ngai declared that from that day forward, all hyenas would appear thus—and to remind them of the foolishness of trying to become something that they were not, He also gave them a fool's laugh.” I paused again, and stared at her. “Memsaab Eaton, you do not hear the Kikuyu laugh like fools, and I will not let them become crippled like the hyena. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  She considered my statement for a moment, then looked into my eyes. “I think we understand each other perfectly, Koriba,” she said.

  The two young men I had sent for arrived just then, and I instructed them to accompany her to Haven. A moment later they set off across the dry savannah, and I returned to my duties.

  I began by walking through the fields, blessing the scarecrows. Since a number of the smaller children followed me, I rested beneath the trees more often than was necessary, and always, whenever we paused, they begged me to tell them more stories. I told them the tale of the Elephant and the Buffalo, and how the Maasai elmoran cut the rainbow with his spear so that it never again came to rest upon the earth, and why the nine Kikuyu tribes are named after Gikuyu's nine daughters, and when the sun became too hot I led them back to the village.

  Then, in the afternoon, I gathered the older boys about me and explained once more how they must paint their faces and bodies for their forthcoming circumcision ceremony. Ndemi, the boy who had insisted upon a story about Kirinyaga the night before, sought me out privately to complain that he had been unable to slay a small gazelle with his spear, and asked for a charm to make its flight more accurate. I explained to him that there would come a day when he faced a buffalo or a hyena with no charm, and that he must practice more before he came to me again. He was one to watch, this little Ndemi, for he was impetuous and totally without fear; in the old days, he would have made a great warrior, but on Kirinyaga we had no warriors. If we remained fruitful and fecund, however, we would someday need more chiefs and even another mundumugu, and I made up my mind to observe him closely.

  In the evening, after I ate my solitary meal, I returned to the village, for Njogu, one of our young men, was to marry Kamiri, a girl from the next village. The bride-price had been decided upon, and the two families were waiting for me to preside at the ceremony.

  Njogu, his faced streaked with paint, wore an ostrich-feather headdress, and looked very uneasy as he and his betrothed stood before me. I slit the throat of a fat ram that Kamiri's father had brought for the occasion, and then I turned to Njogu.

  “What have you to say?” I asked.

  He took a step forward. “I want Kamiri to come and till the fields of my shamba” he said, his voice cracking with nervousness as he spoke the prescribed words, “for I am a man, and I need a woman to tend to my shamba and dig deep around the roots of my plantings, that they may grow well and bring prosperity to my house.”

  He spit on both his hands to show his sincerity, and then, exhaling deeply with relief, he stepped back.

  I turned to Kamiri.

  “Do you consent to till the shamba of Njogu, son of Muchiri?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she said softly, bowing her head. “I consent.”

  I held out my right hand, and the bride's mother placed a gourd of pombe in it.

  “If this man does not please you,” I said to Kamiri, “I will spill the pombe upon the ground.”

  “Do not spill it,” she replied.

  “Then drink,” I said, handing the gourd to her.

  She lifted it to her lips and took a swallow, then handed it to Njogu, who did the same.

  When the gourd was empty, the parents of Njogu and Kamiri stuffed it with grass, signifying the friendship between the two clans.

  Then a cheer rose from the onlookers, the ram was carried off to be roasted, more pombe appeared as if by magic, and while the groom took the bride off to his boma, the remainder of the people celebrated far into the night. They stopped only when the bleating of the goats told them that some hyenas were nearby, and then the women and children went off to their bomas while the men took their spears and went into the fields to frighten the hyenas away.

  Koinnage came up to me as I was about to leave.

  “Did you speak to the woman from Maintenance?” he asked.

  “I did,” I replied.

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that they do not approve of killing babies who are born feetfirst.”

  “And what did you say?” he asked nervously.

  “I told her that we did not need the approval of Maintenance to practice our religion,” I replied.

  “Will Maintenance listen?”

  “They have no choice,” I said. “And we have no choice, either,” I added. “Let them dictate one thing that we must or must not do, and soon they will dictate all things. Give them their way, and Njogu and Kamiri would have recited wedding vows from the Bible or the Koran. It happened to us in Kenya; we cannot permit it to happen on Kirinyaga.”

  “But they will not punish us?” he persisted.

  “They will not punish us,” I replied.

  Satisfied, he walked off to his boma while I took the narrow, winding path to my own. I stopped by the enclosure where my animals were kept and saw that there were two new goats there, gifts from the bride's and groom's families in gratitude for my services. A few minutes later I was asleep within the walls of my own boma.

  The computer woke me a few minutes before sunrise. I stood up, splashed my face with water from the gourd I keep by my sleeping blanket, and walked over to the terminal.

  There was a message for me from Barbara Eaton, brief and to the point:

  It is the preliminary finding of Maintenance that infanticide, for any reason, is a direct violation of Kirinyaga's charter. No action will be taken for past offenses.

  We are also evaluating your practice of euthanasia, and may require further testimony from you at some point in the future.

  BARBARA EATON

  A runner from
Koinnage arrived a moment later, asking me to attend a meeting of the Council of Elders, and I knew that he had received the same message.

  I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders and began walking to Koinnage's shamba, which consisted of his boma, as well as those of his three sons and their wives. When I arrived I found not only the local Elders waiting for me, but also two chiefs from neighboring villages.

  “Did you receive the message from Maintenance?” demanded Koinnage, as I seated myself opposite him.

  “I did.”

  “I warned you that this would happen!” he said. “What will we do now?”

  “We will do what we have always done,” I answered calmly.

  “We cannot,” said one of the neighboring chiefs. “They have forbidden it.”

  “They have no right to forbid it,” I replied.

  “There is a woman in my village whose time is near,” continued the chief, “and all of the signs and omens point to the birth of twins. We have been taught that the firstborn must be killed, for one mother cannot produce two souls—but now Maintenance has forbidden it. What are we to do?”

  “We must kill the firstborn,” I said, “for it will be a demon.”

  “And then Maintenance will make us leave Kirinyaga!” said Koin-nage bitterly.

  “Perhaps we could let the child live,” said the chief. “That might satisfy them, and then they might leave us alone.”

  I shook my head. “They will not leave you alone. Already they speak about the way we leave the old and the feeble out for the hyenas, as if this were some enormous sin against their god. If you give in on the one, the day will come when you must give in on the other.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” persisted the chief. “They have medicines that we do not possess; perhaps they could make the old young again.”

  “You do not understand,” I said, rising to my feet. “Our society is not a collection of separate people and customs and traditions. No, it is a complex system, with all the pieces as dependent upon each other as the animals and vegetation of the savannah. If you burn the grass, you will not only kill the impala who feeds upon it, but the predator who feeds upon the impala, and the ticks and flies who live upon the predator, and the vultures and maribou storks who feed upon his remains when he dies. You cannot destroy the part without destroying the whole.”