Squatting shackled in rags of the Kobo, white men, but at least now without the leg irons, he endured having his muscles pinched for firmness, his mouth pried open with a flat stick to check his teeth, being slapped to see if he had fire left in him after the long, hellish voyage. Long-Spear-Thrower expected only brutality, now, knew it from the soul-dead center of the white town. All was stone around him, stone not rounded beautiful and benign as the boulders in his African homeland, but with the spirit carved away to make the lines and corners that the Kobo loved.
Shards of his own soul had vanished, too, in that voyage. Little by little, his spirit leaked out of him like those of the cadavers thrown to the giant fishes of the sea. His soul wanted restoration. Now it was time to stand upon the block.
The Kobo milled closer, drawn by the fierce shoulders and princely stature. The trader's talker began a string of ugly words. Some in the crowd protested. The trader's talker argued with them.
But they all silenced when a slender man in ruffles stepped forward, shook his head, stuck up his cane to trace lines of raised bump designs adorning Long-Spear-Thrower's chest. The silence was thick with fear. The slender Kibe, the lecturing white man, had seen those marks before, learned them from brethren who had gone before and comported themselves as Nyebe, as men. Long- Spear-Thrower's chest filled, his eyes shone with pride. He did not try to hide it from the Kobo. He was certain he supported the slender Kibe's assertion that true warriors do not make slaves.
Murmurs and nodded heads among the crowd greeted this assertion. The trader's talker protested, but he was drummed down by many voices. He had reached to take the manacles in his hand to jerk Long-Spear-Thrower down from the block when another Kibe stepped forward.
This Kibe was dressed differently than the others, more sensibly. There was none of the formality of the high hats and the thick coats. His hand restrained the trader's talker who in turn let go the chain.
They regarded one another, master and slave, the slave head high and rigid of body, the master lax, standing easy. From his vantage upon the block, Long- Spear-Thrower looked down upon a man nearly his own height. Darker than the others, a swarthy skin further darkened by the sun but at least not milk pale like the others, his eyes were black as the hair hanging curly from beneath the broad, straw hat.
A bargain was struck. Long-Spear-Thrower had traded enough cattle to know when a bargain was completed. The master paid for him in silver coin, motioned for him to follow, turned and walked away.
Long-Spear-Thrower did not follow. Princes do not follow, they lead. He remained upon the block. A great blow across his shoulder sent him sprawling in chains against the barren ground. The Kobo laughed. The trader's talker raised the cane again and Long-Spear-Thrower sprung to his feet to die nobly, in combat.
The other Kibe came back, then, and stood between them. The trader's talker put down the cane. The darker Kibe turned toward Long-Spear-Thrower. One hand held the manacles in a surprisingly strong grip. The other slapped him hard on both cheeks so that his eyes watered and his skin stung.
He was dragged from Congo Square. A noose was tightened on his neck and the loose end tied to the pummel of a saddle on a great, strong horse. This way, he was dragged from that soulless city.
Once outside the city, the Kibe reined the horse, dismounted. There was a sack tied to the saddle and from this he drew more Kobo clothes. The African would not accept them.
"Gyedado," he demanded instead. It was the breechclout and a lion-skin cape stripped from him at capture by the gya Kobo, the Europeanized Africans who first humiliated him. He touched the Kibe's shirt and said with distaste, "Nu padapada," he would rather go naked.
The Kibe did not force the clothes upon him. He stuffed them away, drew a sharp, long-bladed knife and cut the tether to the saddle.
Long-Spear-Thrower watched him suspiciously. He saw the Kibe draw his pistol. The shot was quick. He had just time to throw up his arms, although he knew from the trader that it was no defense.
But the shot merely blew the head from a rabbit by the road. Long-Spear-Thrower ran to the animal. He had not had fresh meat in weeks. With his fingers, he flayed the skin, then gnawed at the still warm and quivering flesh until it was torn away.
The Kibe had reloaded. He placed the muzzle at the warrior's temple. Long- Spear-Thrower did not move. He even ceased to breathe. The other moved two fingers before his eyes like a man walking, then took the pistol from the African's head and showed it to him. The message was unmistakable. Long-Spear-Thrower nodded. There was no place to run in this dead land across the sea, anyway. The Kibe put the pistol back beneath his belt. Strong hands at his shoulders bade Long-Spear-Thrower stand. The other slapped his own chest.
"Miguez," he said with gusto. Then he touched Long-Spear-Thrower's chest and said, "Antonio."
Long-Spear-Thrower said nothing. Miguez smiled and squatted, and together they built a fire and roasted the meat and ate. Then, without a tether between them, Long-Spear-Thrower walking before the horse and rider as was proper for a prince, they began again.
They were eleven days in transit. By horseback and on foot, then by barge and boat through an enormous swamp. Miguez cared for him as he cared for his horse. He did not go hungry and finally had to accept the clothing against the ravenous bugs. He was loathe to wear the clothing of the Kobo, but there was no chance to get more skins and the insects were tortuous and brave. He was a prince of the highlands, unused to the low, swampy existence.
Miguez was much better suited. They were vermin together, Miguez and the mosquitoes. Long-Spear-Thrower bore them.
So rich were the rising auras of the water, trees, black soil and life above, on land in the swamps and bayous, that he wondered if this were the Spirit Kingdom, the repository for the souls of true men. But it was not. It was just that the Kobo had not yet had time to putrefy this, his new home.
Home for Miguez was a log house at the edge of a great expanse of savannah, much like the plains where true men hunted the gyi for his strength. A woman ran from the cabin as they approached. She carried a bundled baby. At the sight of her, Miguez put spur to horse and galloped into the clearing, dismounting as the horse slid on all four hooves. He kissed the woman in the Kobo manner and took the baby from her arms.
Long-Spear-Thrower trod nobly, slowly, as befit a prince. The woman warily watched him come, fear growing in her face, in her eyes. And as he approached, she took the baby from Miguez as though to free the man's arms for fighting. He halted. Miguez smiled at her, stroking her smooth, dark hair with a palm of his hand, then cupping the baby's head gently.
"Maria," Miguez said, touching the woman. Long-Spear-Thrower took it for the Kobo word for woman. "Francisco Dos," he said for the baby and Long- Spear-Thrower realized these were names because the words were too long for a description of such a small infant.
In that instant, Long-Spear-Thrower was touched and angry, filled with longing and bitterness. He had been wrenched from three wives and eight children in Africa. And now he knew he would never return. It was too far. He fought to keep his shoulders from drooping forward in un-princely fashion.
The Maria saw it in his face. Women have eyes that men cannot attain. She came forward with the baby, held it for him to see. It was the supreme act of humanity, so he forced himself to nod and smile.
Miguez removed the manacles. He took up the horse's reins and bade him to follow. There was a lean-to barn. Miguez unsaddled and turned the horse loose. The animal cropped at the grass on the edge of the prairie.
That was when he saw the cattle and realized he was with a kpe ko ke, in the home kraal of a king. No one else could own that many cows and calves and stalwart bulls. Long-Spear-Thrower sighed. He envied Miguez's wealth but felt he was in good company.
Now he knew what he must do. To survive as a man in the kraal of a kpe ko ke, he must conquer something substantial, he must gain strength. He wondered if there were gyi in that country. He made the sign for lion but Miguez did not understand.
The woman brought them meat and bread and wine. He did not like the wine but the meat was good and the bread. It was late in the day and the spirit auras of the trees, plants and the tiny, scurrying animals were gathering luminescence.
There was a nature in concert, here. This was not yet an unholy place, merely a place where true men did not live, or lived as slaves to the Kobo. He could not respect a man who killed with pistol or rifle. There was no ceremony in that, no chance to grow by fear and courage, Nyebe wodo.
Miguez gave him a blanket, not because it was cold for it was steamy-hot, but because of the mosquitoes. He slept in the barn. It was required of him but he would not enter a structure with corners in any case. Spirits of the dead inhabit corners. Proper houses were round. Sleeping unmanacled, unrestrained, he began to build strength through his dreams.
Deep in the thick, humid night, he dreamed he was in Africa. They were camped by the edge of the savannah. He heard gyi challenge from his rock outcrop den. Good omen for the hunting, to hear gyi in the night.
Then he was not dreaming. Every sense was awake. He crouched in the lean-to barn, attuned to every movement of grass, every buzz of insect, even to each drop of sweat which ran down his body.
Miguez, too, was awake. He stood beside the house. Long-Spear-Thrower saw the rifle in his hand. He turned swiftly when the great cat roared again.
It was not a lion's roar, but it was a beast as suitable. Their word gyi meant leopard just as well. The ceremony was the same.
Long-Spear-Thrower saw the spirit aura of the beast inside the band of palmettoes by the bayou's edge. Desperately, he prayed that Miguez would not dishonor such a beast with that obscene and cowardly Kobo instrument but he understood that the Spaniard was blind in the night and to the real world of spirit. The aura was brilliant and huge. This was an animal of many kills, without fear, with only cunning and courage.
It was when the beast turned eyes on him that Long-Spear-Thrower felt his chest swell with hunting joy. The eyes were the crystallization of the soul of the great cat. He could not see the fur, nor make out the true shape of the body, but he saw the aura clearly and the eyes. The eyes were yellow-green in the night, like coals burning brightly.
Then, it was gone. Not even the aura remained. There was only the calf. They found the remains in the morning. Two haunches of the calf had been ripped away and dragged into the great swamp.
"El tigre negro," Miguez said, but it meant the same as lion to him. They butchered what remained of the calf and set the meat to smoking in a little house inside the trees.
Then Miguez took a saw with two handles and led him to the edge of the woods. He chose a tree and with his own hands put Long-Spear-Thrower's hands on one handle. Then he went to the other handle and lifted the blade to the bark.
"Passe-partout," he said in explanation, but Long-Spear-Thrower understood only that he was to do the work of slaves.
"Ko gyee ni," he said, I do not clear land.
He dropped the handle and turned to walk to the center of the clearing and there to sit cross-legged and build his strength for the lion. But Miguez dropped him from behind with a fierce blow on the head from the butt of the pistol.
He awoke chained again, in the shed, the manacles and his arms encircling a post sunk deep into the ground. He was given water but no food for two days. In that time he watched Miguez work from sunup to sundown. He was clearing land and amassing logs for lumber. He owned two mules as well as the horse and all the cattle.
The man was tireless, as hard as the wood he was cutting. The lion did not return and Long-Spear-Thrower slept fitfully, unable to protect himself from the mosquitoes. But on the second night, Miguez came out to build a smoky fire and the African was grateful.
In the morning, he brought up the two-handled saw. He squatted before him, holding the saw in the middle of the blade so that it dipped down at each handle. Miquez looked deep into his eyes.
"Passe-partout?" he asked. It was almost a polite question.
"Passe-partout," Long-Spear-Thrower heard his own voice say.
Never did a prince of the highlands back out of a bargain. Although the instrument was clumsy at first, he applied himself to it, though his blisters bled upon the wood of the handles. Once his hands had hardened, it became a contest. Long-Spear-Thrower wanted to wear Miguez down. But Miguez matched him stroke for stroke, strengthened by the accomplishment of work which Long-Spear-Thrower thought of as a duel.
Too exhausted to dream, he knew the scream was real the night the strange lion returned. It was a great cat, a male worthy of the hunt.
Miguez again in the lee of the house, huddled for protection against the unseen terror. Long-Spear-Thrower, stood, strode toward him, joined him and looked where Miguez looked. Not at the cat.
It was his fear that the cat would be killed with the rifle by Miguez. And Miguez could not see the aura. They stood together, sweating, the Kibe's fear smelled putrid. Miguez was blind to the life forces around him, of that he was now certain; and so contempt was seeded in his mind against his master.
Long-Spear-Thrower went to the coals of his fire and breathed life into a brand. At the edge of the savannah, he poised, then threw it at the blue-green aura of the cat. The beast fled. Miguez joined him at the brand. The torchlight showed the tracks.
Miguez nodded, acknowledging. He expressed his thanks with a slap on the shoulder and a smile. It was a warm gesture between men, and Long-Spear-Thrower resented him for it because he needed the edge of contempt to slice away his misery and shape again his pride. But now was the time to communicate. At that time better than any other, Miguez would understand. He slapped the rifle.
"Yours," he said in his language, but Miguez slowly nodded. Long-Spear-Thrower made a pantomime of spear throwing.
"Mine," he said.
But Miguez shrugged that he did not understand. Long-Spear-Thrower assumed a more exact spear throwing position and followed through as though he were skewering a palmetto twenty spear lengths distance. But it was not enough. So he led him back to the barn, stopped him at the rusted, broken plow.
He touched the flat metal which bolted the plow to the handles, then touched Miguez's sheathed knife at his belt. Very slowly, Miguez nodded. Then he gave the whole thing to him with a magnanimous sweep of hands.
"Tengas," Miguez said. "Es tuyo, con mi gracias."
Long-Spear-Thrower did not let slip one detail of the ritual. He fasted for five days, working by day, preparing and chanting by night. A snare caught a fox and he built a cage of cured oak boughs thick enough to hold him. On the morning of the fifth day, the expected change in the weather took place.
Existence seemed suspended. By the auras of the plants and the anxiety of the caged fox, he knew the time had come. That night he built the fire. First, he burned away the handles, freeing the flat metal. Now he had both hammer and material. The plow point was his anvil.
Now the spirit of the wind rose to fan the flames. He was much relieved at the great spirit of this land and chanted, worked through the night. It was a slow business. In the gray light of dawn, he was not even nearly finished; but Miguez came and sat and watched, alternating concentration between the metalwork and the sky. Long-Spear-Thrower was not vexed. There was no secret to the ritual and the Kobo knew not their language.
Wind Spirit matched his fervor, the meter and the tempo of the chants. The blade took shape. Each blow gave it the shape of the soul of Africa.
So lost was he in the ritual, the chanting and the fasting and the pounding of the iron, that he did not know the Wind Spirit was whipping branches from trees and the bayous and coulees into a froth. He did not know it until he thrust the new-formed blade into the living body of the fox. He thrust it from chest to tail, buried in the animal from point to hilt. The fox had not even the time to growl or bark or scream death agony, it was that fast. And the red-hot blade seared and sizzled and cooled tempering inside.
Only then did he see the anger of the heavens. Now, sweating from fear himself, hurriedly but with the proper prayers he buried the body of the fox and returned to the lean-to barn. Now it was he, from the shelter of the barn as the first hurricane drops began to fall, who watched in rapt fascination.
For Miguez was in the yard ranting, railing, daring the gods of weather and the destruction of the skies. Long-Spear-Thrower did not understand his language, but the defiance of his upraised fist and the manly challenge of his shouts and curses left him no doubt. Ritualistically, Miguez on occasion took drinks from the bottle in his other fist. It was a magic potion which gave him the courage to challenge the most ferocious of the spirits.
For the auras of existence were in chaos. The anger of the heavens was obvious even to the Kobo, but the auras of the world around him were more terrifying. Long-Spear-Thrower prayed with all his might. He was not afraid of the elements, the spirits had smiled upon him. But now, for the first time, he knew how strong was his master, he knew the worthiness of the opposition.
At first daylight, amid the sap-scented, ragged after-storm debris, he fastened the blade to a long pole of ash that had cured naturally, abandoned at the edge of the forest. Shedding the Kobo clothes, donning the gyedado, he readied himself. Then, with not a thought for Miguez or the work, he walked into the jungle.
The spoor, even though nearly one week old, was not difficult. The gyi had no fear, no enemies, not even man. There was no attempt to hide the trail. Where the trail entered water, he swam to the nearest land, even though he had fear of the stubby-nosed crocodiles that lived in that water. There was more at stake than his life and his limbs.
The day wore on as he moved deeper into the swamp. It was more vast than anything he imagined. And infested with vipers new to him. He was filled with dread, but armored by dedication, desperation and the faith instilled by tradition and training. And still he lost the trail. It vanished. Nothing.
He searched in the moonlight, carefully putting his hand down to the soil of each island he encountered where he saw anything that might be a paw print. Nothing. Confusion, not doubt, crept into his awareness. And then he smelled the smoke.
It was a settlement of red-skinned people, copper-colored in the firelight. They gathered round him, chattering about his height, about his skin as they made signs to one another with their hands. But most of all, they admired his spear. These people were in hiding from the Kobo, of that Long-Spear-Thrower was certain. And they understood something more of him, that he was there for the cat.
In a hut of bark and reeds and skins, not unlike the dwellings to which he was accustomed, round at least, they showed him the cat-clawed cadavers of a child and a man. The child had been partially eaten, the man clawed to death. From their gestures, he learned the man had interrupted gyi's meal.
They offered him food, but he would not take it. They seated him at a fire in the hut of their king and burned powder before him which sent smoke in different flavors into the lodge. The king made talk before him, exhorting him to something. Behind him sat his wives and, apart, his daughter. They were very curious and stole glances at Long-Spear-Thrower. He caught one's eyes, black and deep like his. He saw the lusty reflection in it so he slowly looked away. Now he had completed the ritual with the refusal of carnality.
In the morning, they gave him one of their dugout boats, nearly identical to Miguez's pirogue. They sent him into the north, jabbering and pointing.
The spirits, now, were in concert. Their auras coincided, balanced on another. He was a highland warrior, but he was at peace poling the pirogue through the lakes and streams.
The island of the gyi was marked with tracks. Little ones, too. There could be a pride. He would not be able to isolate the male as they did in the savannah of Africa. It would be necessary to find the den.
All day he hunted with every sense rubbed raw with concentration. But it was the scent which betrayed them. The den was dug among the roots of a gigantic tree.
The cubs were playing at the den. Two of them. And this was the shocking part: They were streamlined like the cheetah, not the lion, but they were sleek and black as Long-Spear-Thrower. Never had there been a sign so strong.
He retreated, knowing the mother would return to the den with the wind in her nostrils. All day, he waited high up in a tree, downwind from the den. She came cautiously, with a meal of squirrel and rabbit crowded in her mouth.
He killed her with a single thrust. Approaching the den with the dead mother, he saw the cubs in terror scamper into the limbs of the magnolia. They glowered above him as he spent the wait flaying the skin from the magnificent muscle. There were leopard's spots on the dark inner coat.
Gyi came by night. Long-Spear-Thrower saw him creeping, saw him by that changing, glowing manifestation of his soul, now charged with hunting anger, warrior blood-lust. The cat crouched as though pierced when Long-Spear-Thrower flung the words into the darkness of the jungle to eyes alive with ethereal light.
"Gyi. I am thy brother and thy enemy. Come to me. Let us embrace and the one who rises will be stronger."
Now Gyi came quickly, plowing the grass and shrubs in a straight, snarling line. He braced. He would not throw the spear.
"Gyi!!!!!"
The cat impaled himself upon the lance. And still he came. The point reached the hide of his back and burst through, and still he came. He came with the lance running through him, pushing the lance through him with every soil-digging step of multi-clawed paw until Long-Spear-Thrower let go of the lance. He let go the lance and grappled with the thick, black fur, immersed in the stench of carrion breath. The snarling teeth, coated with saliva and blood dripping, he held just inches from his own throat. He had seen the spirit begin evacuating through the eyes so he shoved the writhing body from his own.
Gyi tried to rise, but could not. Then, as clearly as a sunrise, the aura left the meat. It left in a little ballooning cloud, a string of it somehow snapping and the aura dissipating like a mist before the sun.
Quickly, while it was yet warm, he dug out the heart and ate it. Then, victorious, he panted and lay upon the rich, dark earth, bled into it until he could rise and find the proper medicine growing around him and bind up his wounds. He skinned the male, his brother, and bound the cubs in the hides of their parents. He had a use for those cubs, a trade. He would seek out a kado, a mate. He would go on a nyenamo, a visit for a wife.
It was many more days before Long-Spear-Thrower stepped into the clearing at the settlement of Miguez. Miguez was struggling with the one-handled saw. At the sight of the other man, he took the pistol from his belt and held it at his side.
Long-Spear-Thrower strode up to him, spear carried like a walking stick or a bishop's crook, point-upward to the sky. The male cat's pelt was around his shoulders, knotted there by the skin of forelegs including claws, for strength and courage. The female skin was tied similarly at his waist, the female near the loins for fertility. Behind him walked the woman, shy, eyes downcast. Miguez slipped the pistol back into his belt.
Black man and white man faced one another. The woman stood apart, hands folded, demure. The men gave one another little formal nods of the head.
"No longer in my land," Long-Spear-Thrower began formally in his own language, "I am not a prince. I acknowledge this. And I am thy slave." And then he slapped his own chest mightily. "But I am still a man!"
The dark face of Miguez beneath the broad-brimmed straw hat now beamed. He nodded seriously, though, and definitely. His hand came out in the Kobo greeting. The other took it.
"Nyebe yu!" Long-Spear-Thrower said, I am a man!
"Yo te entiendo," Miguez answered, I understand you. Then he added his agreement, "De acuerdo!"
With his other hand, he slapped the damp, black shoulder.
"Hombre!" he said.