Kirinyaga

by Mike Resnick

  And we will all the pleasures prove

  That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

  Woods, or steepy mountains yields.

  And we will sit upon the rocks,

  Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

  By shallow rivers to whose falls

  Melodious birds sing madrigals.

  There will I make thee bed of roses,

  And a thousand fragrant posies,

  A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

  Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

  A bed of straw and ivy buds,

  With coral clasps and amber studs:

  And if these pleasures may thee move,

  Come live with me and be my love.

  Kamari frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “I told you that you would not,” I said. “Now put the book away and finish cleaning my hut. You must still work in your father's shamba, along with your duties here.”

  She nodded and disappeared into my hut, only to burst forth excitedly a few minutes later.

  “It is a story)” she exclaimed.

  “What is?”

  “The sign you read! I do not understand many of the words, but it is a story about a warrior who asks a maiden to marry him!” She paused. “You would tell it better, Koriba. The sign doesn't even mention fisi, the hyena, and mamba, the crocodile, who dwell by the river and would eat the warrior and his wife. Still, it is a story! I had thought it would be a spell for mundumugus”

  “You are very wise to know that it is a story,” I said.

  “Read another to me!” she said enthusiastically.

  I shook my head. “Do you not remember our agreement? Just that once, and never again.”

  She lowered her head in thought, then looked up brightly “Then teach me to read the signs.”

  “That is against the law of the Kikuyu,” I said. “No woman is permitted to read.”

  “Why?”

  “It is a woman's duty to till the fields and pound the grain and make the fires and weave the fabrics and bear her husband's children,” I answered.

  “But I am not a woman,” she pointed out. “I am just a little girl.”

  “But you will become a woman,” I said, “and a woman may not read.”

  “Teach me now, and I will forget how when I become a woman.”

  “Does the eagle forget how to fly, or the hyena to kill?”

  “It is not fair.”

  “No,” I said. “But it is just.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Then I will explain it to you,” I said. “Sit down, Kamari.”

  She sat down on the dirt opposite me and leaned forward intently.

  “Many years ago,” I began, “the Kikuyu lived in the shadow of Kirinyaga, the mountain upon which Ngai dwells.”

  “I know,” she said. “Then the Europeans came and built their cities.”

  “You are interrupting,” I said.

  “I am sorry, Koriba,” she answered. “But I already know this story.”

  “You do not know all of it,” I replied. “Before the Europeans came, we lived in harmony with the land. We tended our cattle and plowed our fields, we produced just enough children to replace those who died of old age and disease, and those who died in our wars against the Maasai and the Wakamba and the Nandi. Our lives were simple but fulfilling.”

  “And then the Europeans came!” she said.

  “Then the Europeans came,” I agreed, “and they brought new ways with them.”

  “Evil ways.”

  I shook my head. “They were not evil ways for the Europeans,” I replied. “I know, for I have studied in European schools. But they were not good ways for the Kikuyu and the Maasai and the Wakamba and the Embu and the Kisi and all the other tribes. We saw the clothes they wore and the buildings they erected and the machines they used, and we tried to become like Europeans. But we are not Europeans, and their ways are not our ways, and they do not work for us. Our cities became overcrowded and polluted, and our land grew barren, and our animals died, and our water became poisoned, and finally, when the Eutopian Council allowed us to move to the world of Kirinyaga, we left Kenya behind and came here to live according to the old ways, the ways that are good for the Kikuyu.” I paused. “Long ago the Kikuyu had no written language, and did not know how to read, and since we are trying to create a Kikuyu world here on Kirinyaga, it is only fitting that our people do not learn to read or write.”

  “But what is good about not knowing how to read?” she asked. “Just because we didn't do it before the Europeans came doesn't make it bad.”

  “Reading will make you aware of other ways of thinking and living, and then you will be discontented with your life on Kirinyaga.”

  “Butyou read, and you are not discontented.”

  “I am the mundumugu? I said. “I am wise enough to know that what I read are lies.”

  “But lies are not always bad,” she persisted. “You tell them all the time.”

  “The mundumugu does not lie to his people,” I replied sternly.

  “You call them stories, like the story of the lion and the hare, or the tale of how the rainbow came to be, but they are lies.”

  “They are parables,” I said.

  “What is a parable?”

  “A type of story.”

  “Is it a true story?”

  “In a way.”

  “If it is true in a way, then it is also a lie in a way, is it not?” she replied, and then continued before I could answer her. “And if I can listen to a lie, why can I not read one?”

  “I have already explained it to you.”

  “It is not fair,” she repeated.

  “No,” I agreed. “But it is true, and in the long run it is for the good of the Kikuyu.”

  “I still don't understand why it is good,” she complained.

  “Because we are all that remain. Once before the Kikuyu tried to become something that they were not, and we became not city-dwelling Kikuyu, or bad Kikuyu, or unhappy Kikuyu, but an entirely new tribe called Kenyans. Those of us who came to Kirinyaga came here to preserve the old ways—and if women start reading, some of them will become discontented, and they will leave, and then one day there will be no Kikuyu left.”

  “But I don't want to leave Kirinyaga!” she protested. “I want to become circumcised, and bear many children for my husband, and till the fields of his shamba, and someday be cared for by my grandchildren.”

  “That is the way you are supposed to feel.”

  “ But I also want to read about other worlds and other times.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “But—”

  “I will hear no more of this today,” I said. “The sun grows high in the sky, and you have not yet finished your tasks here, and you must still work in your father's shamba and come back again this afternoon.”

  She arose without another word and went about her duties. When she finished, she picked up the cage and began walking back to her boma.

  I watched her walk away, then returned to my hut and activated my computer to discuss a minor orbital adjustment with Maintenance, for it had been hot and dry for almost a month. They gave their consent, and a few moments later I walked down the long winding path into the center of the village. Lowering myself gently to the ground, I spread my pouchful of bones and charms out before me and invoked Ngai to cool Kirinyaga with a mild rain, which Maintenance had agreed to supply later in the afternoon.

  Then the children gathered about me, as they always did when I came down from my boma on the hill and entered the village.

  “fambo, Koriba!” they cried.

  “fambo, my brave young warriors,” I replied, still seated on the ground.

  “Why have you come to the village this morning, Koriba?” asked Ndemi, the boldest of the young boys.

  “I have come here to ask Ngai to water our fields with His tears of compassion,” I said, “for we have had no rain this month,
and the crops are thirsty.”

  “Now that you have finished speaking to Ngai, will you tell us a story?” asked Ndemi.

  I looked up at the sun, estimating the time of day.

  “I have time for just one,” I replied. “Then I must walk through the fields and place new charms on the scarecrows, that they may continue to protect your crops.”

  “What story will you tell us, Koriba?” asked another of the boys.

  I looked around, and saw that Kamari was standing among the girls.

  “I think I shall tell you the story of the Leopard and the Shrike,” I said.

  “I have not heard that one before,” said Ndemi.

  “Am I such an old man that I have no new stories to tell?” I demanded, and he dropped his gaze to the ground. I waited until I had everyone's attention, and then I began:

  “Once there was a very bright young shrike, and because he was very bright, he was always asking questions of his father.

  “ ‘Why do we eat insects?’ he asked one day

  “ ‘Because we are shrikes, and that is what shrikes do,’ answered his father.

  “ ‘But we are also birds,’ said the shrike. ‘And do not birds such as the eagle eat fish?’

  “ ‘Ngai did not mean for shrikes to eat fish,’ said his father, ‘and even if you were strong enough to catch and kill a fish, eating it would make you sick.’

  “ ‘Have you ever eaten a fish?’ asked the young shrike.

  “ ‘No,’ said his father.

  “ ‘Then how do you know?’ said the young shrike, and that afternoon he flew over the river, and found a tiny fish. He caught it and ate it, and he was sick for a whole week.

  “ ‘Have you learned your lesson now?’ asked the shrike's father, when the young shrike was well again.

  “ ‘I have learned not to eat fish,’ said the shrike. ‘But I have another question.’

  “ ‘What is your question?’ asked his father.

  “ ‘Why are shrikes the most cowardly of birds?’ asked the shrike. ‘Whenever the lion or the leopard appears, we flee to the highest branches of the trees and wait for them to go away'

  “ ‘Lions and leopards would eat us if they could,’ said the shrike's father. ‘Therefore, we must flee from them.’

  “ ‘But they do not eat the ostrich, and the ostrich is a bird,’ said the bright young shrike. ‘If they attack the ostrich, he kills them with his kick.’

  “ ‘You are not an ostrich,’ said his father, tired of listening to him.

  “ ‘But I am a bird, and the ostrich is a bird, and I will learn to kick as the ostrich kicks,’ said the young shrike, and he spent the next week practicing kicking any insects and twigs that were in his way

  “Then one day he came across chui, the leopard, and as the leopard approached him, the bright young shrike did not fly to the highest branches of the tree, but bravely stood his ground.

  “ ‘You have great courage to face me thus,’ said the leopard.

  “ ‘I am a very bright bird, and I am not afraid of you,’ said the shrike. ‘I have practiced kicking as the ostrich does, and if you come any closer, I will kick you and you will die.’

  “ ‘I am an old leopard, and cannot hunt any longer,’ said the leopard. ‘I am ready to die. Come kick me, and put me out of my misery’

  “The young shrike walked up to the leopard and kicked him full in the face. The leopard simply laughed, opened his mouth, and swallowed the bright young shrike.

  “ ‘What a silly bird,’ laughed the leopard, ‘to pretend to be something that he was not! If he had flown away like a shrike, I would have gone hungry today—but by trying to be what he was never meant to be, all he did was fill my stomach. I guess he was not a very bright bird after all.’“

  I stopped and stared straight at Kamari.

  “Is that the end?” asked one of the other girls.

  “That is the end,” I said.

  “Why did the shrike think he could be an ostrich?” asked one of the smaller boys.

  “Perhaps Kamari can tell you,” I said.

  All the children turned to Kamari, who paused for a moment and then answered.

  “There is a difference between wanting to be an ostrich, and wanting to know what an ostrich knows,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. “It was not wrong for the shrike to want to know things. It was wrong for him to think he could become an ostrich.”

  There was a momentary silence while the children considered her answer.

  “Is that true, Koriba?” asked Ndemi at last.

  “No,” I said, “for once the shrike knew what the ostrich knew, it forgot that it was a shrike. You must always remember who you are, and knowing too many things can make you forget.”

  “Will you tell us another story?” asked a young girl.

  “Not this morning,” I said, getting to my feet. “But when I come to the village tonight to drink pombe and watch the dancing, perhaps I will tell you the story about the bull elephant and the wise little Kikuyu boy. Now,” I added, “do none of you have chores to do?”

  The children dispersed, returning to their shambas and their cattle pastures, and I stopped by Siboki's hut to give him an ointment for his joints, which always bothered him just before it rained. I visited Koinnage and drank pombe with him, and then discussed the affairs of the village with the Council of Elders. Finally I returned to my own boma, for I always take a nap during the heat of the day, and the rain was not due for another few hours.

  Kamari was there when I arrived. She had gathered more wood and water, and was filling the grain buckets for my goats as I entered my boma.

  “How is your bird this afternoon?” I asked, looking at the pygmy falcon, whose cage had been carefully placed in the shade of my hut.

  “He drinks, but he will not eat,” she said in worried tones. “He spends all his time looking at the sky.”

  “There are things that are more important to him than eating,” I said.

  “I am finished now,” she said. “May I go home, Koriba?”

  I nodded, and she left as I was arranging my sleeping blanket inside my hut.

  She came every morning and every afternoon for the next week. Then, on the eighth day, she announced with tears in her eyes that the pygmy falcon had died.

  “I told you that this would happen,” I said gently. “Once a bird has ridden upon the winds, he cannot live on the ground.”

  “Do all birds die when they can no longer fly?” she asked.

  “Most do,” I said. “A few like the security of the cage, but most die of broken hearts, for having touched the sky they cannot bear to lose the gift of flight.”

  “Why do we make cages, then, if they do not make the birds feel better?”

  “Because they make us feel better,” I answered.

  She paused, and then said: “I will keep my word and clean your hut and your boma, and fetch your water and kindling, even though the bird is dead.”

  I nodded. “That was our agreement,” I said.

  True to her word, she came back twice a day for the next three weeks. Then, at noon on the twenty-ninth day, after she had completed her morning chores and returned to her family's shamba, her father, Njoro, walked up the path to my boma.

  “fambo, Koriba,” he greeted me, a worried expression on his face.

  “fambo, Njoro,” I said without getting to my feet. “Why have you come to my borna?”

  “I am a poor man, Koriba,” he said, squatting down next to me. “I have only one wife, and she has produced no sons and only two daughters. I do not own as large a shamba as most men in the village, and the hyenas killed three of my cows this past year.”

  I could not understand his point, so I merely stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “As poor as I am,” he went on, “I took comfort in the thought that at least I would have the bride-prices from my two daughters in my old age.” He paused. “I have been a good man, Koriba. Surely I deserve that muc
h.”

  “I have not said otherwise,” I replied.

  “Then why are you training Kamari to be a mundumugu}” he demanded. “It is well known that the mundumugu never marries.”

  “Has Kamari told you that she is to become a mundumugu}'“ I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. She does not speak to her mother or myself at all since she has been coming here to clean your boma”

  “Then you are mistaken,” I said. “No woman may be a mundumugu. What made you think that I am training her?”

  He dug into the folds of his kikoi and withdrew a piece of cured wildebeest hide. Scrawled on it in charcoal was the following inscription:

  I AM KAMARI

  I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD

  I AM A GIRL

  “This is writing,” he said accusingly. “Women cannot write. Only the mundumugu and great chiefs like Koinnage can write.”

  “Leave this with me, Njoro,” I said, taking the hide, “and send Kamari to my boma?”

  “I need her to work on my shamba until this afternoon.”

  “Now,” I said.

  He sighed and nodded. “I will send her, Koriba.” He paused. “You are certain that she is not to be a mundumugu}”

  “You have my word,” I said, spitting on my hands to show my sincerity.

  He seemed relieved, and went off to his boma. Kamari came up the path a few minutes later.

  “fambo, Koriba,” she said.

  “fambo, Kamari,” I replied. “I am very displeased with you.”

  “Did I not gather enough kindling this morning?” she asked.

  “You gathered enough kindling.”

  “Were the gourds not filled with water?”

  “The gourds were rilled.”

  “Then what did I do wrong?” she asked, absently pushing one of my goats aside as it approached her.

  “You broke your promise to me.”

  “That is not true,” she said. “I have come every morning and every afternoon, even though the bird is dead.”

  “You promised not to look at another book,” I said.

  “I have not looked at another book since the day you told me that I was forbidden to.”

  “Then explain this” I said, holding up the hide with her writing on it.

  “There is nothing to explain,” she said with a shrug. “I wrote it.”