Everfair (44 page)

“I wouldn't be able to bring her to New York anyway.”

The queen refused to cry. She must not make the land sad. “Thank you!” She took her sister's hand and held it to her heart. “You will leave? You won't stay and fight?”

“That's not what you want me to do, is it? No. As you say, it's dangerous. Too many shonguns. Too many more deaths.”

“It's better you're not one of the fighters. Too many will die.”

The mead was gone. Josina tipped the bottle upside down just to be sure. She sighed and poured herself a gourdful of tamarind instead. Through the afternoon's haze she noticed fishermen leaving, walking toward the shore. Afternoon? It was later than that; the sun hung low, and faintly over the rapids she heard the evening whistle.

Army against army. More sacrifice. More wounded. The land would suffer. And why? Her husband's spirit father had said there should be no more foreigners. Truly—but couldn't that mean more than one thing?

“We can't let this happen. We must play
sanza
with both men. With them, and all who obey their orders.” That no longer included the queen herself. The land had a claim superior to her king's.

The tamarind, like the mead, was gone. That made her explanation of
sanza
on the way back to shore thirsty work.

Arriving once more on the wharf, Josina accepted the ministrations of her ladies and fighters: a seat in a carriage, the tucking of prettily painted cloth about her shoulders against the cool of evening. Her mead-sodden head was soft and rosy as the clouds behind which the sun had sunk—but not so soft she missed the white woman's approach. It was the Poet, Daisy, switching from one side of the vehicle to the other to follow Lisette's face.

The queen shook off the barkcloth and stepped back out onto the roadway, where she could hear the women's words plainly: “You mustn't let me hurt you again, ch
é
rie. Ever again! My last letter was meant to heal our rift completely. Let it! And if I write or say something regrettable ever again, let me know—I'm not too old to change!”

“Indeed?”

“Let me change! Let me! Let me not hurt you—”

“My very dear—” Her sister swayed suddenly—due to the
ovingundu,
no doubt—and put out a hand to brace herself. The Poet seized it.

“Say you forgive me! Say you love me still! Say it!”

“If I say so, it's not because you tell me to! And if I kiss you it's because that's what
I
want!” With no thought of their audience, Lisette showed Daisy she meant what she had said. Showed her well.

“Come; we will walk,” the queen announced to her attendants. Her bees had returned to their hives on the palace rooftop but not, apparently, before accomplishing their mission. As she left, she heard to her satisfaction her sister's newly melodious voice become muffled, the door to the abandoned carriage shut. She prayed for yet more sweetness to greet its next opening.

 

Mbuji-Mayi, Everfair, to Mwango, Everfair, September 1918

Undoubtedly King Mwenda's decision to force all whites and foreign blacks to leave the country had been a mistake. Yet the king could not undo it now. He would have to kill any he found who had disobeyed his orders. The moment was as irreclaimable as when he'd unsheathed his original shongo long ago at court. The sixty seasons intervening had taught him wisdom, but not enough. If only he had understood his spirit father more clearly. More quickly. If only there were some way to retract his decree without damaging his authority.

If only he could give up the burdensome blessings of rule and return to his beloved bush.

Flying low on
Lukeni,
passing slowly over the empty town the settlers had called Bookerville, it at first seemed to Mwenda that most must have complied. Piles of unwanted belongings and abandoned supplies occupied the central plaza. Perhaps some people hid in the houses? He had his drummer signal
Brigid
—another name to be changed—to drop a landing party. The fighters swarmed down ropes lowered over the older aircanoe's open sides.

But while they investigated, finding nothing, a renegade aircanoe appeared out of the morning sun to swoop upon the king's command. That must be
Boadicea,
the aircanoe the ungrateful General Wilson had stolen shortly after it received its new closed gondola. Those aboard were armed: out of openings in its sides they shot shonguns, and threw gourds filled with broken palm oil set on fire. The flaming gourds missed
Lukeni
's airbag, and for the second time the whites' settlement burned.

Well, if they wished to destroy their own constructions the king wouldn't try to stop them.
Brigid
's landing party had scattered into the bush. They'd find their way back to Kisangani by themselves. The king gave orders to head out for Kamina, the second of this mission's three targets. The caves would be difficult, but using smoke—

A burst of noisy argument at the other end of the steering room roused him from his thoughts. “There's no guarantee we'll get more than a few miles before we crash!”

“What has happened?” he asked, moving toward the shouting men. Loyiki and Kajeje prostrated themselves and Captain Tombo bowed. From the decking, Loyiki explained that several of their airbag's cells seemed to have been “compromised”—cut open by shongun blades, in other words, and leaking. How fast? The men's answers sounded like guesses. He touched their shoulders and bade them stand.

“And
Brigid
? Is there damage there, too?” Captain Tombo asked the drummer to find out. While he waited for a response, Mwenda looked over the map cloths hung on the room's walls.

Loyiki, the spy, filled in missing information. “The terrain is rough between Mbuji-Mayi and Kamina: trees and rocky hills. Our best course is to follow the Lubishi River.”

Brigid
also reported having been hit. But not as badly, it seemed. The older aircanoe went ahead of
Lukeni,
and King Mwenda watched it appear to rise as the vessel carrying him slowly sank. At last
Lukeni
's gondola fell so low the steering room's windows no longer showed their companion vessel; instead, green branches framed a smooth blue river.

“My king, we must land soon.” Captain Tombo had flown only two other aircanoes. His voice sounded nervous, though his face betrayed nothing of his feelings.

“Yes. Where have you chosen?”

“We're near a hill; a village at its base may provide—”

“Good. Tell
Brigid
to go on to Kamina without us.” Mwenda turned away from the useless window. Taking his goat-hair cloak from a peg by the room's doorless entryway, he left and climbed to
Lukeni
's forward hatch. He wore his best-designed hand, so he was easily able to undo the fastenings and push up the heavy wooden panel: control
and
strength.

Already they were down far enough he didn't really need the cloak's extra warmth. In front and to the left—the east—he saw a hill's crest. It and the gondola were at about the same height. No doubt this was the spot Captain Tombo had picked.

Mwenda hoisted himself free of the gondola's ceiling. The airbag continued to obstruct his view to the rear. A guide rope threaded its way back along the thickly woven roof. He held onto it and followed it to the engine compartment. Bah-Sangah priests insisted anyone visiting such locations should wear the heavy, clumsy ritual garments, but he would be
on top of,
not
inside,
the little enclosure where the sacred earths exerted their forbidden influence. And for only a moment, he told himself.

But it took Mwenda several moments of straining to catch sight of the aircanoe following them. Washed out by the noontime sun,
Boadicea
's purple airbag at first blended far too well into the sky's pale blue. Only a glinting window in the gondola gave its position away.

Would it continue following
Brigid
to Kamina?

The hill's grassy slope looked closer and closer as it streamed beneath
Lukeni
's stern. Mwenda went back inside to brace himself against the gondola's walls.

Thud! Thud-thud-thudduddudd
—then there was relative stillness.
Lukeni
was on the ground. Cracking noises announced the settling of the gondola's full weight on joints and joists not meant to bear it. Twice they tilted sharply to port, then starboard, the wind-tugged airbag jerking them from side to side.

The window showed graze-shortened grasses nearby and a distant forest. Captain Tombo sent crew members to assess the “compromise.” “What else shall we do?” he asked Mwenda.

“Find out whether
Boadicea
has gone on after
Brigid
.” They were acting in the only sensible way, a way that would make it possible to calculate how much weight to dump so as to take off again. Unless—

Screams from above. A horrible light flickered in the window. Kajeje burst through the door. “Get out! They have set fire to us!” Mwenda lost no time leaving, though perhaps some dignity.

Safe on the hilltop, he looked back at the aircanoe's ruins. Fire had engulfed the engine compartment and raced up the lines securing it to the gasbag, which was already ablaze. Fighters scrambled free of the forward and mid-hatches, arms full of weapons and ammunition. Several crewwomen ran past him with sandbags and cloaks, headed for an isolated patch of flames.

Shielding his eyes against the sun, Mwenda saw
Boadicea
circling above, doubtless with more bombs ready to loose if necessary. But the enemy would be easy to evade; all they had to do was abandon the aircanoe and hide. The bush beckoned—but why was
Brigid
's silhouette growing larger?

Because it was coming back. As
Lukeni
's crew and passengers retreated into the shadows of the banana trees, the two aircanoes remaining aloft drew toward each other overhead.

“No!” shouted the king. Must so many more die? And at the hands of those who ought to be friends? Yet he had led them to battle—how could he expect them not to fight? “Drummer!” he called. But when the man came, he gave him no orders.
Brigid
's engine must be running at its fastest and loudest; it would probably drown the drum out.

Quickly the blaze was reduced to charred wood and smoldering heaps of ash. Loyiki guided Mwenda to a spot where the hill fell away so steeply it was easy to see the river valley. Bananas reached up on either side to shelter him while offering an opening in the direction he wanted to look.

The two aircanoes approached one another. Neither tried to get away. They came within a man's length of one another. Closer. Mwenda imagined fighters climbing out of
Boadicea
's hatches, both sides shooting shonguns, tossing ropes with hooks on their ends to capture the others' vessel. No more bombs? Evidently
Boadicea
's commander desired
Brigid
intact. Evidently he was to get his wish.

King Mwenda watched helplessly as bodies fell to the earth. Some used jumpsheets. Some spun and tumbled to their death, arms flailing. Men and women the king had known. Over a hundred.

Eventually the two aircanoes disengaged. But then
Brigid
followed
Boadicea
meekly south.

Defeat was a bitter meal. It spoiled the savor of his voyage homeward through the bush. The women and men of Mwango, the small village at the foot of the hill upon which they'd landed, provided boats to take them back down the Lubishi River to its confluence with the Sankuru and the busier river's engine launches. But Mwenda traveled more slowly than that might have meant, since he insisted on sending out searchers for those who'd leapt or fallen or been tossed from
Brigid
.

At first they found quite a lot of bodies. Then fewer. Animals may have eaten them. Or the king had passed beyond the area of the fighting.

The survivors totaled four hands. Six of them were of the enemy. One of these he was very glad to see: George Albin.

Upon his makeshift throne—a hollow-topped river stone—the king sat in state. Loyiki forced the prisoner to his knees.

“Must he really be bound?” Mwenda asked. “George, will you promise not to escape if you are untied?”

“I give my word. As an Everfairer.”

At the king's signal, Kajeje cut the vine tying the white man's wrists together. His arms hung ignored at his sides, though tears of pain welled in his odd blue eyes. “What would you do if I did run? Kill me?”

No. Mwenda would never forget Lily's death during his rescue. The rescue that had cost him his hand. But he sent the prisoner away without another word, and for the rest of the trip said nothing more. He was listening for the instructions of his spirit father. In no other way could he hope to hear how to avert more tragedy.

 

Kisangani, Everfair, October 1918

Aided by Matty's skills and insight, Fwendi found it easy to organize artistic and untraceable protests of this third and stupidest war. She accomplished much of her work while held within his arms.

At first she pretended reconciliation with him, an explanation for the time they spent together planning subversion. Soon their pretended reconciliation became real. Soon her heart followed its old habits, resuming the soft, swift pulse of love as readily as her flesh and metal resumed their place in Matty's house—and bed.

She accepted his apologies. “Who told you I
wanted
to be married? Great-Uncle Mkoi, when you asked permission?” She laughed and stretched, her brass hand, warm from his embrace, brushing his hair from his face, silver and gold.

“But I ought to have given you a choice, at least.” His large eyes studied her worriedly in the dawning light.