Climate of Change (49 page)

“But surely the Malindi exorcist is no better at casting out demons than any other.”

Hero exchanged a glance with Keeper.

“It's time to tell her,” Crenelle said.

“Tell me what?” Tourette demanded.

“There's a reason we came to this town at this time,” Hero said. “It's ugly.”

Tourette was catching on. “This is not about exorcism.”

“Don't misunderstand,” Hero said. “We value you above all else. But we don't believe you are haunted by demons.”

“But my expressions! Something takes over and I can't stop it. Isn't that demons?”

“It is a problem,” Hero said. “But we think it is something in your body or mind that goes wrong on occasion. It can't be demons. We don't really believe that demons exist. They are merely a way to try to explain things folk don't understand.”

She considered that. She was a smart girl, and rational. Hero doubted that she had ever really believed in demons either, but she had gone along with it for the sake of harmony. “Then why have we been visiting so many healers?”

“To cover for our real mission. No one questions our desire to make
you become marriageable, so we can travel widely without arousing suspicion.”

She nodded. Ugly or defective girls were serious problems in the marriage market. She was far from being ugly, but her liability more than nullified her dawning beauty. She was also a realist. “And that mission is?”

“Goats,” Keeper said.

Tourette paused, her mental processes threshing. “We have goats.”

“This is a special breed that the Portuguese are rumored to have imported by sea. Very strong foragers, supremely hardy, especially during dry weather.”

“They wouldn't die in the drought!” she exclaimed. “That would be valuable.”

“Extremely,” Keeper agreed. “But it was just a story. We need to ascertain whether it is true, and if so, we need to buy a breeding pair and take them home.”

“Where we could breed a herd of them, and survive the next drought much better. But why the secrecy?”

“All tribes suffer from the drought,” Keeper said. “Do you think we could bring such valuable goats through their territories without them being stolen?”

“Not if they knew,” she agreed.

“We regret deceiving you,” Crenelle said. “Don't. I could have given it away without meaning to. In a fit.” The others nodded. “And you were an excellent cover,” Hero said. “You have done your part.”

Tourette smiled grimly. “By being what I am: haunted.”

Crenelle hugged her. “By letting others think you're haunted.”

“But you'll still have trouble making me marriageable.”

“We'll find a man who understands,” Crenelle assured her. “We wouldn't want any other kind.” For marriage was a family matter.

Tourette returned to business. “So the goats are there, and if the Zimba capture that town, they'll eat them along with the people. So it's our problem.”

“It's our problem,” Hero agreed.

They retired to a secluded glade to hold a family conference. This time Tourette was allowed to participate. She was clearly thrilled with the recognition as a near adult, but also somewhat awed and nervous. The problem was serious.

“Here is the situation,” Keeper said, filling in the rest of it for the girl. “We are not sure the goats are as great as rumored, but have to verify it in case they are, because of the great potential benefit to the Xhosa people. To keep the mission secret, it is limited to a single family unit, with a pretext to travel widely.” He glanced at Tourette, who smiled.

Hero realized something he had somehow missed before: his younger brother liked his daughter, and she liked him. They were family, yes, but there was something almost flirtatious about their exchange of glances. That could become awkward.

“So we traveled,” Keeper continued. “As rapidly as we could without overextending ourselves or revealing our true mission. We knew we had to reach Malindi before the Zimba did. But in the months we have been walking, the Zimba got to the town before we did. Now we have a difficult choice: give up our mission and go home, or find a way to get safely into that town. And out with the goats. I fear our journey has been wasted.”

“May I?” Tourette asked thoughtfully.

“Speak,” Hero said, curious as to what was on her mind.

“The Zimba. Weren't they peaceful farmers, until about ten years ago? When they suddenly turned cannibal and ate a whole village?”

“They were farmers and herders,” Keeper agreed. He knew all about all things agricultural and pastoral. “But they were also experienced cannibals who did not hesitate to consume enemies killed in battle, or criminals. Cattle rustlers learned to respect their herds.”

“The hard way,” Tourette said, and they laughed together.

Hero glanced at Crenelle, but neither spoke.

“So when a bad drought came, depleting their herds,” Keeper continued, “first they ate the dead cattle. Then they went after the town of Sena. It was a trading post doing business with the Portuguese, so
they didn't like it anyway. They overwhelmed it and settled down to a huge feast. They consumed every man, woman, child, and animal in it, sparing only those who joined them as tribe members.”

“That's what I heard,” Tourette said, shuddering.

“When they had digested Sena, they went on to Tete, up the coast. They besieged it, and soon broke down its defenses and captured it. Then they systematically ate everything in it, as before. The surrounding tribes were horrified, but helpless to stop it. All they could do was flee.”

“I can understand why,” Tourette said.

“When we learned that this was happening, we knew we had to get those goats before the Zimba did,” Keeper concluded. “But they moved faster than we expected. We thought they were still assimilating Kilwa, but it seems they finished with it. I dislike saying it, but I think our mission is already lost. There's no sense throwing our lives away at this point.”

“They are going north?” Tourette asked.

“Town by town,” Keeper agreed. “It takes them a while to finish a town, a year or two, but inevitably they march again, north.”

“And who lives to the north?”

“The Segeju,” Hero said. “They are fierce, but it is doubtful whether they could defeat the Zimba in open battle, and they seem reluctant to try.”

“But if they're next to be eaten?”

“I suspect they prefer to believe that the threat is not immediate,” Hero said.

“But if they found a way to defeat the Zimba, would they do it?”

“They might,” Hero said. “But that doesn't matter, because I doubt there's a way. The Zimba are too strong.”

Tourette was intent. “Suppose they came upon the Zimba by surprise? When they weren't ready?”

Hero shrugged. “Then they might. It would make long-term military sense.”

“Such as when the Zimba are occupied attacking Malindi.”

Hero considered. “As they are now. Maybe they would.”

“Suppose we go to them and suggest it? That might save the town—and the goats.”

Hero looked at Keeper. Could this possibly work? It would be dangerous, for a reason he did not care to voice. “What do you think?”

Keeper paused, evidently appreciating that danger, then nodded. “It's far-fetched, but at least it's a chance. We could ask them, if we decided to do that. At worst they would decline.”

Crenelle spoke, her expression grim. “Since we have virtually no chance to save the goats otherwise, I believe we should try it. A small chance is better than none.”

Hero looked again at Keeper, knowing how he would answer. “How do you see it?”

“I agree with Crenelle. At least it's a chance.”

“Then let's get moving,” Hero said. “We surely don't have much time before the Zimba breach the walls. Once they get into the town, all is lost.”

They traveled north, avoiding the main routes, as they had all along. Smaller villages were easier to deal with, being less formal and more open to visitors.

As night approached, they came to a small agricultural village. They halted as the lookout spied them. They could communicate with other Bantu tribesmen, though the dialects differed.

“We are Xhosa, from far to the south,” Hero explained. His knobkerrie, or wooden battle club, was hanging from his belt, obviously out of action. It was important to be nonthreatening. “Myself, my wife, my brother, and my daughter. We seek hospitality for the night, and a consultation with your healer.”

“Healer? Why?”

“My child has an affliction. Maybe a demon possesses her. At times she acts crazy.”

“Our healer can't handle that,” the scout said. “What do you offer for the night?”

“We can perform our tribe's traditional song and dance. My wife remains shapely, and my daughter is dawning.”

The scout looked at Crenelle, then at Tourette. He saw what any man would: a pretty woman and a pretty girl. That was viable currency anywhere, especially if they had any significant dancing talent. He nodded. “This way.”

They followed him to the center of the village, where the local headman was waiting. Naturally the villagers had known of the approaching party long since, and probably had already known their mission. Also their entertainment capacity. Villages were in constant touch with each other, and always eager for diversion from the dull routine. The scout had been a formality of introduction.

Hero formally introduced their party. They were given a vacant hut, and a loaf of bread and some dried fruit. There was a cistern where they could wash.

As darkness closed, torches were ignited and mounted around the central circle. The villagers collected to see the performance. Such events, however minor they might be, always thrilled the children.

Hero took the stage. “We are Xhosa,” he said. “Traveling to find help for our daughter, who is beset by a demon. If you see her doing something strange, do not be concerned; the demon afflicts only her, no one else, and usually quits soon. Meanwhile, here is our traditional dance.”

Hero and Keeper sat on the ground. Hero brought out his stamping stick. This was a hollow length of wood that made a characteristic resonant sound when struck against the ground. Keeper had a small wood flute. Craft had made both instruments, and they were of fine quality though they looked ordinary.

Crenelle and Tourette took their places, standing, bare-breasted as were most women, their black skins shining. They wore beaded necklaces, brief skirts, and anklets of linked shells. Crenelle was well developed; Tourette was as yet undeveloped, a girl, but her aesthetic form suggested that soon enough she would be a woman to be reckoned with.

Hero struck the ground with his stamping stick. The sound rang out, commencing the dance. Keeper played his pipe, making a melodic tune. He was good at it, having trained since childhood, using the sounds to pacify animals.

Crenelle moved, swinging her hips grandly in the loose skirt. Tourette echoed her motion in a less pronounced manner, as though her slender body lacked the powers of expression of the older woman. They circled each other, their feet touching the beaten earth in time to the complicated cadence Hero set with his stick. There was an art to the beat of the stick, and now it showed.

Then Keeper played a sudden frill, and woman and girl leaped together as if startled, their necklaces lifting. Hero's stick thumped loudly as they landed. The village children laughed. But the adult men were watching closely, for Crenelle in musical motion was a sight to behold, and Tourette, even so young, almost matched her in appeal.

Their dance was genuinely appreciated, because the melody was catching, extremely well played, and perfectly coordinated. Many eyes were on Crenelle, of course, but Hero saw that almost as many were on Tourette. The girl was gaining, in appearance and grace, especially when dancing. Especially in the flickering torchlight, that made it easy to imagine that she was better endowed than she was.

They did several tunes, with several dances. Then the villagers joined in, with the support of their own musicians, especially the drummers. They were satisfied; the family had entertained them well enough. Hero was able to put away his stamping stick, his job done.

The village elder approached. “Yet she has a problem?” he inquired. “She looks quite appealing.”

No need to inquire whom the elder meant. “When the fit comes on her, she twitches and makes weird sounds,” Hero said. “It can be disconcerting. We need to get the demon out before she can marry.”

“She could marry now,” the elder said. “She is young, but her potential is manifest.”

“Yes. But she could marry far more advantageously without the liability of the demon.”

The elder nodded. “It does seem worth the effort.” Then he changed the subject. “You know of the Zimba?”

“We are horrified by the Zimba,” Hero said. “We were going to see the exorcist in Malindi, but the Zimba are besieging it.”

“When they are done with Malindi, if they turn this way, we shall have to flee for our lives.”

“What else can you do?” Hero asked sympathetically. He did not speak of the plan to enlist the help of the Segeju, lest there were a spy in the village who would relay the information to the Zimba. Extreme caution was best.

“Nothing, I fear,” the elder said, and moved on.

In due course the party ended, and the family retired to the hut. They had once again found a comfortable rest for the night, as they had been doing throughout their journey.

In the morning they resumed their trek, with the good wishes of the villagers. It helped when they could entertain for their lodging. They had precious stones, garnets, that could be traded for accommodations, but they wanted to make those go as far as possible. Every night they didn't use one helped. They were hidden in the mouths of each of them, in tight little packets that in an emergency could be swallowed. Then they could be recovered when they cleared the digestive system. They were too valuable to risk being lost through robbery.