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By
Charles R. Saunders
The warrior peered intently over a high sandstone escarpment. An unfamiliar landscape spread like a ragged carpet beneath him. Far to the north, his keen vision could discern a dark smudge on the horizon: not storm clouds, but smoke and ash flung skyward from the fiery throats of a lengthy range of volcanoes that erupted only intermittently, but were never completely quiescent. The volcanic range, along with its immediate surroundings, was known as Motoni, the northernmost boundary of the mighty continent called Nyumbani.
It was said that nothing could live in Motoni ... nothing other than demons and the spirits of the damned. The warrior had no desire to encounter either, though he would not retreat if he were confronted. What he saw in the area beneath the escarpment interested him more than the tales of vagabonds who had ventured close to – but never into – Motoni.
The land before him was bleak, but not blasted. Part of it consisted of semi-arid territory, with patches of scrub-brush interspersed with the occasional flat-topped acacia tree. Desert antelope with horns as straight as spears browsed on the brush, and puffs of dust marked the passage of other, smaller creatures that moved so swiftly that the dust was all that could be seen of them.
The other part – the part that lay to the east – was covered with short, dun-colored grass. Blade-leafed mopane trees grew in copses not large enough to be considered forests. Herds of gnu, zebra and impala grazed the plain. Their ears flickered and their nostrils twitched as they kept constant vigil for signs of lurking flesh-eaters.
Farther to the east, the warrior saw clusters of stony spires that towered like monuments to forgotten deities. Outcrops of rock were present on the arid side as well, but they rose in isolation, and were not as high as their eastern counterparts.
At the border of the two territories, sand and grass competed in a never-ending struggle, with dry yellow fingers reaching into the plain and clumps of ochre grass finding precarious purchase in arid soil. It was on that border that two groups of people gathered. And it was those groups that had captured and maintained the warrior’s attention.
Even from the distant escarpment, the warrior could see clear differences between the groups. The people of the grassland were very dark in hue, and wore almost no clothing. With them were long-horned cattle of a type similar to the ones the warrior had herded during his youth.
It was difficult to discern much about the people on the other side of the few yards of space that separated the groups. For their bodies were wrapped in lengths of white cloth that threw back the sunlight in a blinding glare. Turbans of similar cloth covered their heads. Camels stood placidly at the swathed people’s side. The humped beasts bore saddles and bridles.
Neither side carried any weapons that the warrior could see. Yet the tension between the contingents was apparent even at a distance.
They must be here to trade, the warrior thought. To his way of thinking, the cattle-herders would surely get the worst of any bargain. Despite the many rains he had spent away from the herds of his childhood, the warrior continued to prefer cows to camels.
Then he realized that none of the white-robes’ camels were unsaddled or without bridles. And the warrior saw no bundles or stacks of other goods for exchange. He frowned in puzzlement.
One of the white-robes made a sudden, emphatic gesture. With ill-concealed reluctance, the herders acknowledged the signal, and urged all the cattle they had brought to go to the westerners’ side. Nearly a score of the herders followed the cattle. The ones who went with the beasts were not young enough to be considered children, but still too young to have reached adulthood. They carried sacks and containers with them. As they departed, they did not look back. And the herders left behind looked at the ground.
Not trade, the warrior realized. Tribute. The robed ones take not only cattle, but also slaves and other goods, from the herders.
The white-robes mounted their camels. The warrior heard echoes of harsh words and cruel laughter as the westerners drove the cattle and captives into the semi-arid side of the land. The herders watched silently for a time. Then, heads still down, they turned and trudged toward the jumble of tall rocks that shimmered in the distance.
The warrior frowned. He had wandered a great distance since his last sojourn with other people. Increasingly, he had become careful concerning such contact, and drained by its demands. In most parts of Nyumbani, his name preceded him. So did tales of his deeds. Some of those stories were true; others, exaggerated; and still others nothing more than the imaginings of the griots and praise-singers who told them.
To some, he was The Liberator. To others, he was known as The Deathless Warrior. More ominously, some referred to him as Death’s Friend. He had overthrown empires, destroyed demons, freed slaves, slain sorcerers. It was whispered that a deity dwelled inside him – a Cloud Strider from ancient times.
The whisperers spoke truth. But the warrior was still a man, though unlike any other. At times, he wearied of the importunings of men and women, as well as the toll he exacted from himself as he reflected on some of the things he had done.
He was aware that the lands to the immediate south of Motoni were isolated and mostly unknown. He had never ventured this far north before. He wondered if the tales about him had spread to this place. If they had not, there was a chance he could find the peace that eluded him elsewhere.
But the scene below did not look peaceful ...
I should have known better, he thought as he gazed at the unfamiliar country, through which the wild beasts roamed more freely now that the men and their tame creatures had gone.
Although memories of his life with the people among whom he had been raised remained bitter, the cattle had not judged him, and the quietude that had imbued him when he was among the herds on the vast Tamburure savanna had afforded him solace. These people who had allowed their cattle to be taken were not like the people of his past, who would never have allowed such a shameful incident to occur.
But the warrior did not pass judgment on these strangers. Instead, a familiar stirring rose from deep within him, and he knew he would not rest until that stirring was satisfied. Something is wrong here, he thought. And I am needed to make it right.
“Yet again,” he said aloud.
The warrior climbed to his feet and quickly descended the escarpment. When he reached the ground, he followed the trail of the disconsolate herders, who had now passed from sight.
* * *
Desultory nods and mutters greeted the members of the Nubala contingent as they returned to their dwellings. It was always thus on Gifting Day, the time during which the Nubala of the east were obliged to honor their longstanding agreement with the Jijiwi of the west. Inevitability did not diminish the resentment and rancor that accompanied the giving.
“They ask for more every rain,” grumbled Achok, who strode at the front of the unhappy procession, alongside his uncle Tuatat, who was the wachik, or head, of the various Nubala clans.
Receiving no reply from Tuatat, Achok continued: “If their demands increase, one day there will be nothing left of us.”
Tuatat paused and glared at the younger man.
“Perhaps you will be Champion someday,” the wachik said. “Perhaps you will be the one who saves us all.”
Those words caused Achok to lower his gaze and fall silent. Both men were tall, lean, and dark as the wood of the ebony tree. Like all Nubala, they wore nothing but cow-hide loin pouches and a few strings of multi-colored beads. Yet they could not be considered as truly naked. For nearly every inch of their bodies, from their toes to their shaven pates, was bedecked with tiny dots of flesh that poked from beneath their skin, giving it a vaguely reptilian appearance. The marks, which were called mbama, honored Besu Jusa, the Rock Lizard, which the Nubala believed to be their guardian spirit.
Though the Nubala women wore no more clothing than the men, they did not share the practice of shaving their heads. Instead, they grew their hair in tight rows and plaits, threaded with beads, wire, and ornaments of wood and bone. Like the men, their skin carried the marks of Besu Jusa. Only pre-pubescent children went smooth-skinned. The markings, which were created by placing bits of ash beneath tiny cuts in the skin, were the culmination of the many rituals that ushered the Nubala from childhood to adulthood.
“Hiyee! “Hiyoo!” the children shouted as they rushed to greet the men who had returned from the borderland. Even though they knew they could someday become part of the Gift to the Jijiwi after they received their skin-marks, the children’s exuberance could not be contained by forebodings of the future.
The women and men were more reserved in demeanor. But the greetings of the children were so spontaneous that Tuatat, Achok, and the others with them were able, if only for a moment, to allow their gloom to lift.
Tuatat smiled as he held the children who happily gripped his legs and waist. His eyes caught and found those of his wife and daughter. He knew they were glad to see him, despite the reality that so many Nubala had gone to the borderland, and few had returned.
Thus far, his family had been spared from becoming part of the Gift. He also knew their luck would eventually desert them, as it had for all the Children of Besu Jusa many rains in the past ...
His gaze wandered to the pastures of the Nubala cattle and the fields of grain that grew beyond the grazing-land, and the sun-sheened lakes that provided the water his people needed. He looked at the thatch-topped clay cylinders that were the dwellings of the Nubala, perched amid the spires of rock that had served as a natural defense for his people since the time their ancestors arrived in this land.
Then Tuatat focused on a lone Nubala man who was laboriously lifting boulders and lowering them back to the ground. The rows of mbama-marks that covered his skin could not conceal the muscles that bunched and knotted as the man grimly applied himself to his task.
Tuatat made no attempt to catch the man’s attention. Better to allow him to focus on his rock-lifting.
I do not envy you, Guguk, the wachik thought. Then a shout interrupted his grim musings.
“Tuatat!” cried one of the watchers who guarded the approaches to the Nubala dwellings. “Someone is coming!”
Tuatat turned to the sentinel, who was slightly out of breath from his rapid running.
Have they decided, at last, to break the Accord? the wachik thought darkly. Already, some of the men were snatching up iron-bladed spears.
“Is it the Jijiwi?” Tuatat demanded, his tone tense.
“No,” the sentinel responded. “It is one man – a man who is not like us, and not like the Jijiwi.”
“One man,” Tuatat repeated. He was not reassured.
A boy pressed a spear-shaft into Tuatat’s hand. Like the others who had accompanied the Gift, he had gone weaponless to the border, as the Accord stipulated. He had slain leopards and cattle-raiders with the spear he now held. Though he did not doubt that he could kill a lone foe, he wondered what a stranger could be doing in a land that had remained remote for such a long time.
The Nubala men gathered quickly at Tuatat’s side. They were warriors now, freed from the constraints of the Accord. Like the teeth of a crocodile, their spears pointed outward – none steadier-handed than that of Guguk, the hard-muscled lifter of boulders.
With deceptive speed, the outlander approached. He had been loping, but now that he was within sight of the Nubala, his pace slowed to a walk. He was close enough that the Nubala could see that he was, indeed, unlike them or the Jijiwi. His umber skin was not as dark as the Nubalas’, but it was darker than that of the camel-riders. His broad features were not as blunt as those of the Nubala, but they were fuller than the Jijiwis’. Unlike Nubala men, this one’s head was not shaven. His black hair covered his skull like a wooly helmet.
The stranger’s only garment was the skin of a lion wrapped around his waist. His height and hard-muscled breadth surpassed even that of Guguk. His weapons were a huge, straight sword and a long dagger, both belted across his garment. He kept his hands away from both weapons.
He stopped a few paces from the gathered Nubala. He was the first to break the stiff silence.
“Who are you?” the stranger asked. His words were barely understandable to the Nubala.
“We are the Nubala,” the wachik said in response. “I am Tuatat. Who are you, outlander?”
“Imaro,” the stranger replied.
* * *
The warrior waited for the usual reactions to the sound of his name: fear, awe, uncertainty, incredulity, desperation. But he saw none of those emotions on the faces of the Nubala. All he saw was curiosity, as well as the apprehension that was to be expected from an isolated people meeting an outlander.
At last, Imaro thought. I have finally come among people who do not know who I am ...
“Where do you come from . . . Imaro?” Tuatat asked. “And why are you in our land?”
Imaro struggled to make out all of Tuatat’s words. When the warrior had first spoken, he had used a trade-tongue common among the people closest to this far-off country. He had hoped that the herders’ speech was similar. He now understood that the languages were related, but distantly so.
“I come from ... beyond,” the warrior said, gesturing toward the escarpment to the south. “I am here because of . . . what I saw.”
Tuatat and Achok exchanged puzzled glances.
“What do you mean by that, outlander?” Tuatat demanded.
Imaro countered with a question of his own.
“Is this land your country, or does it belong to the ones who took your cattle and young people?”
Despite the warrior’s imperfect command of their language, the Nubala bristled at the implication of his words. Scowls appeared on many faces, and hands tightened on spear-shafts. In response, Imaro’s hands moved closer to the hilts of his sword and dagger.
Tuatat remained calm, even though the outlander’s words and tone stung him as much as they had the other Nubala. Even so, he kept his spear-point aimed at the smooth-skinned stranger’s abdomen as he answered the question.
“All of the land between the Demons’ Smoke and the Wall Rocks is called Muyum, outlander,” the wachik said. “We Nubala have our part, and the Jijiwi – the robed ones – have theirs. And you still have not told us why you have come here ... Imaro.”
Tuatat had gestured toward Motoni when he said “Demons’ Smoke,” and at the escarpment when he said “Wall Rocks.” Imaro took the remoteness of Muyum into account as he spoke.
“There are many lands south of the High Rocks, Tuatat,” he said. “Many people, many ways – much of which I have seen. I have seen others who herd cattle. I, myself, once did so.”
He paused, looking in turn at Tuatat, Achok, Guguk and the others. They saw appraisal in that gaze, as well as a touch of disapproval.
“And in all the places I have been,” the warrior continued, “I have never seen herders who would give away their cattle and people, and receive nothing in return. Never ... until now. And I wonder what the reason for this could be.”
From the darkening expressions on the Nubalas’ faces, Imaro realized that the implication, if not the details, of his message had struck its mark. He was certain that these people were warriors ... yet warriors did not behave in the manner the Nubala did when he first saw them. Now, they were displaying a modicum of who they truly were. His only concern was that they might be tempted to vent their shame and anger on him. If so, he was prepared.
“You may have been to many places, outlander,” Tuatat finally said in a truculent tone. “But you know nothing of us.”
“Tell me, then. I might be able to help you.”
The Nubala stared incredulously at Imaro, and at each other. Guguk frowned in fury and raised his spear. Tuatat laid his hand on the shaft of the weapon and shook his head. Even as the others muttered in low tones, the wachik’s thoughts swirled in many directions.
How could this stranger be of help to us? he wondered. Did Besu Jusa send him to us, after abandoning us for so long? Is our suffering about to come to an end?
“Will you wait?” Tuatat asked Imaro.
The warrior nodded. Without leaving anyone behind to prevent the stranger from departing, the group of Nubala walked out of earshot. Then they engaged in a loud, animated discussion, with many glances and gestures directed toward Imaro, who abided patiently.
At last, the conversation ended, and Tuatat approached Imaro as the others stayed behind.
“Come with us, outlander,” he said. “Come, listen, and learn.”
* * *
The rocks of Tuatat’s clan were crowded, for many people from other clans had come to take part in the Gifting ceremony. All the Nubala present – men and women, old and young, from near and far – pressed closer to get a better look at the stranger who had come among them. The air hummed with their comments concerning his size and lack of mbama-marks. It was the first time in rains beyond counting that the Nubala had seen anyone, other than the Jijiwi, who was not of their kind.
For his part, Imaro breathed deeply of a conglomerate aroma he had not experienced since his boyhood: a mixture of the smells of people and cattle, sweat and dung. The people were different. So were the cattle. Imaro’s memories of his former people were less pleasant than those of the cattle he had herded ...
Curiosity rather than hostility showed on the faces of the Nubala as they gazed at Imaro. Yet he saw resentment and despondency as well. He guessed that those negative emotions were not directed at him. Their target had to be the white-robed people who had sneered and laughed while claiming their tribute of cattle and captives.
When the procession reached the rock spires, amid which the Nubalas’ dwellings perched like the nests of birds, Tuatat signaled for silence. Then he introduced the outlander.
“This is Imaro, a man from afar,” the wachik said. “He is our guest, and will be treated as though he is of our clans.”
“The people of our clans bear mbama-marks,” said Guguk, who stood near Imaro and Tuatat. “This one has none.”
Tuatat frowned in disapproval of Guguk’s incivility, even though some of the Nubala nodded in agreement with Guguk’s words. Imaro had already noticed the disquiet that gripped the big Nubala. Imaro was not yet concerned with direct confrontation. But he knew he needed to defuse the disrespect Guguk’s comment implied – and instigated.
“I have marks on my skin,” the warrior said quietly. “But they are not like yours.”
Suddenly, he thrust out both his massive arms. Guguk and Tuatat each took an involuntary step backward, as did the others who stood close to the outlander. However, Imaro made no further move.
“Look,” he said.
Cautiously at first, then with curiosity, the Nubala peered at the dark skin of the outlanders’ arms and torso. There, they saw the traces of more than a few scars. Those marks had not been made by incisions of ash beneath his skin. Some had been inflicted by the points and edges of weapons; others could only have been ripped by fangs and claws.
Because he had been touched by a deity while still in his mother’s womb, Imaro healed more rapidly than other men. Even so, the wounds he had suffered during the long rains of his life had left their signs – both without and within.
“You are right, outlander,” Guguk said grudgingly as he looked into Imaro’s eyes. “You have marks, even though they are not mbama.”
“I will speak with Imaro,” Tuatat said. “In my dwelling, with one other – Tiba.”
The crowd stirred at the mention of that name. Then the people parted, making way for a woman who stood taller than most of the men – and nearly as tall as Imaro himself. As Tiba came closer, Imaro could see that she was slender as the trunk of a palm tree. Only the wrinkles between the dots of her mbama-marks, and the flat sacs of her breasts, provided an indication of her advanced age. Yet she moved as gracefully as any of the girls who had only begun to receive their marks.
The plaits of Tiba’s hair jingled with more ornaments than those of the other women. That slight excess was the only indication of her status, which rivaled that of Tuatat. For Tiba was the ayake – a combination of healer and diviner – of the Nubala clans. The ayake was the living link between the people and the spirits that surrounded them.
Tiba gazed deeply into Imaro’s eyes, as though she could see beyond their surface and into his soul. Imaro did not blink under her scrutiny. He wondered if this woman of a people isolated from the rest of Nyumbani for such a long time could, indeed, see who he really was ...
Abruptly, Tiba nodded. Then she turned and began to climb toward Tuatat’s dwelling, using shallow hand-and-footholds carved into the face of the rock. A moment later, Tuatat followed.
Imaro looked at the indentations. Although he had been raised on a flat savannah, he had learned how to live on other types of terrain: forests, mountains, deserts – even the sea. Fitting his hands and feet with care into the indentations, he followed the two Nubala upward.
* * *
Golden sunlight poured through the circular entrance to Tuatat’s dwelling, only to be diffused into semi-darkness. The space inside was deceptively large; more than sufficient to accommodate three people, including one of Imaro’s large size.
A clay bowl filled with a blend of milk and blood from the Nubalas’ cattle passed among Tiba, Tuatat and their guest. Imaro savored the taste of the pinkish beverage. A similar milk-blood mixture was a mainstay of the Ilyassais’ diet.
Yet this liquid had not infused the Nubala with the indomitability that flowed through the blood of the Ilyassai. Now, Imaro would learn the reason for what he saw as an anomaly. When the bowl was finally empty, Tiba began to speak. Her eyes were closed, and her voice rose and fell in a singer’s cadence.
“Know, outlander, that we Nubala were not always as you see us now,” the ayake intoned. “Our ancestors lived far to the south, where grass and water were abundant, and our cattle and dwellings covered the land. Our warriors were mighty; none could stand before their spears. Our magic was strong; no curse could be cast against us. Our ancestors believed they could live forever in this way, for no other people dared to challenge them.”
She paused then, and an expression of pain and sorrow crossed her face, although she did not open her eyes.
“It was not outsiders who defeated our ancestors,” Tiba continued. “Our ancestors defeated themselves. Clans began to envy each other. People of ambition were not satisfied with what they had. Clans began to steal each other’s cattle, which had never happened before. Then our ancestors began to kill each other. The grass turned read with blood. Dwellings burned; hatreds flared. And when the land itself began to quiver in shame for what our ancestors were doing to each other, outlanders came and took it from them.
“The invaders had waited many rains for their chance to strike. Our ancestors were too divided to stand against the enemies they had defeated in the past. Now, it was our ancestors who were defeated, for they continued to fight against each other even as the invaders stole their land and cattle.”
Again, Tiba paused – this time for a longer interval. Tuatat did not speak, and neither did Imaro. The warrior had heard similar tales in the past, involving groups ranging from small tribes to great empires. More than once, he had participated in clashes of the kind Tiba described. He would continue to listen, though. For Tiba had not yet told him what he needed to know.
“The few Nubala who remained alive realized their folly,” the ayake finally said. “But it was far too late. If they remained in the land that was no longer theirs, they faced either death or enslavement. Instead, they chose to flee – to the north, for their enemies’ territory lay to the south.
“Their wandering continued for many rains. The places they found were either barren, or already occupied by stronger tribes. Despair devoured our ancestors’ spirits. The Nubala might have ended at that time, with the last of our ancestors dying in some unknown country.
“But then, Besu Jusa sent a vision to my many-times mother-ancestor. The vision led us to this place – Muyum. Here, we found water, pastures for our cattle, land for our crops, and the Wall Rocks and High Rocks to protect us. And Muyum was far away from the invaders who drove us from our old land, and far away from any people who would try to take this new land from us.
“For many rains thereafter, we Nubala lived in peace. And no other enemies came, either from the direction of the Wall Rocks to the south or the Demons’ Smoke to the north ...”
“Until the Jijiwi,” Tuatat cut in.
“The white-robes,” said Imaro.
“Those are the ones,” Tiba confirmed.
She opened her eyes and shot a sidelong glance of displeasure at Tuatat, who glared back at her for a moment; then looked away, acknowledging her disapproval of his interruption.
“The Jijiwi claimed that their chief spirit – Wolowo, the desert-cat – led them to Muyum even as Besu Jusa led us,” Tiba said, closing her eyes again. “They wanted only the barren western part of the land, for which we have no use because it has nothing for our cattle to eat, and our grain cannot grow in the dry ground there. They left us alone, and we left them alone – at first.”
“Then you learned that the white-robes wanted more from you than you could ever have wanted from them,” said Imaro.
Tiba showed no annoyance at Imaro’s interjection. Tuatat noticed, but he showed no indication of resentment over the ayake’s implicit rebuke of him over similar behavior.
“It is as you say, Imaro,” Tiba agreed. “We had – and have – no use for the Jijiwis’ camels, or the cloth in which they hide their bodies, or the foul-tasting fruit that grows on the bushes they plant. But the Jijiwi covet our grain, and our water, and the flesh – not the milk or blood – of our cattle.
“In the beginning, they raided us, then apologized, then raided us again. We fought them, for we had vowed that we would not be driven from another land. Neither side could win. The Jijiwi could not penetrate our High Rocks, and we could only pursue them for short distances in their dry country. Yet the killing went on, with our people and theirs growing fewer as the dead grew more.
“As the blood flowed, the spirits wept. And finally, Besu Jusa and Wolowo appeared to both tribes, and demanded an end to the warfare. And they told both the Nubala and the Jijiwi to do something different to settle their disagreements.
“They said that once every rain, we should hold a Shinda between Champions of each people. The tribe of the winner would have the right to take a Gift from the tribe of the loser. And there would be no fighting between the Jijiwi and Nubala, other than the Shinda.”
“What happens in this Shinda?” Imaro asked.
“Wrestling,” Tiba replied. “The Champions try to throw each other to the ground, until only one of the two remains standing.”
Tiba fell silent. She opened her eyes again, and the sorrow her gaze conveyed stirred sympathy in Imaro, even though he was certain he had not yet heard the worst part of the tale. But Tiba would not be the one to tell it. She gave a slight nod to Tuatat, and the wachik continued the story.
“Sometimes our Champion won the Shinda, outlander,” Tuatat said. “And sometimes the Jijiwis’ man prevailed. When the Jijiwi won, they demanded only a single cow as their Gift, which they would slaughter and eat. When our Champion won, we would ask for a single camel, which we slaughtered – then used to fertilize our fields, for who would eat the flesh of such an ugly beast?”
Imaro nodded, even though he had eaten camel meat in the past ... but only when no other food was available.
“Then we learned that lifting heavy rocks makes a man stronger,” Tuatat continued. “And after that, our Champions won every Shinda . . . until, ten rains ago, the Jijiwi came to the Shinda with a Champion like none we had ever seen before – Itu-Nusani Mujo, the Three-Faced One.”
His voice caught in his throat as he spoke that name. Tiba grimaced and made a quick warding gesture with one hand.
“Itu-Nusani Mujo has the appearance of a man, but he is more than a man,” the wachik continued. “He is larger even than you, outlander. And he has ... three faces. So powerful is Itu-Nusani Mujo that in that first Shinda, he defeated our Champion with a single throw. Since then, none of our Champions has lasted more than three throws. Some come away from the Shinda with broken bones. Some have died. None of our Champions has been able to throw the Three-Faced One even once.
“From the time Itu-Nusani Mujo became their Champion, the Jijiwi have demanded larger and larger Gifts from us – not only more cattle, but also people, which neither we nor they had wanted before. The Jijiwis’ hunger for what we have grows, and we become weaker rain by rain.”
“Why do you not leave?” Imaro asked.
This time, it was Tiba who spoke.
“We did not want to be driven away again, Imaro. But after a time, there seemed nothing else we could do. But even as we were thinking of escape, Itu-Nusani Mujo sent me a vision in a dream. The vision showed me what would happen if we tried to leave Muyum. The Jijiwi would follow us wherever we went, and they would take whatever they wanted from us. And Itu-Nusani Mujo would lead the pursuit – and the taking.”
Silence followed that statement. Both Tiba and Tuatat gave Imaro long, searching stares, as though the hope they dared to harbor could be drawn directly from the warrior’s gaze.
“These three faces,” Imaro said. “Are they masks?”
“It is difficult to say,” Tuatat replied, repressing a shudder. “It is hard to look directly at Itu-Nusani Mujo. Our eyes slide away from him.”
“What we can say,” added Tiba, “is that even though his body is like a man’s, his faces are not human.”
“How is your Champion chosen?” Imaro asked.
“We hold our own Shinda to decide that,” said Tuatat. “So did the Jijiwi, until Itu-Nusani Mujo came. Guguk is the strongest Champion we have had yet. But even he does not stand a chance against the Three-Faced One. Still, he will try his best to prevail. We are not cowards, outlander.”
“I know you are not,” Imaro agreed as the wachik held his gaze. “Has your god, Besu Jusa, been able to help you?”
“No,” Tiba said sadly. “Besu Jusa is gone from us. It is as though even he fears the Three-Faced One.”
Then I will help you,” said Imaro.
They continued to talk until after sunset, and the Nubala could only speculate on what the unmarked stranger was saying to the wachik and the ayake.
* * *
From a crag amid the rocky spires that protected the Nubala dwellings, Imaro stared into the night. The stars and a moon that was not quite full lit a landscape of shadows. The few fires that still burned in front of the dwellings of those who had not yet retired for the night provided the only other illumination.
Imaro would sleep soon. But not yet. As he gazed in the direction of the Jijiwis’ part of Muyum, Imaro’s thoughts centered on Itu-Nusani Mujo: the latest of the many minions of evil that his path had crossed during his lifetime.
That the Three-Faced One was, indeed, an arcane adversary that must be eliminated, Imaro had no doubt – even though he had never before heard of such a demonic manifestation as this. Briefly, he wondered whether mchawi – the foul sorcery practiced by the long-defeated Erriten of Naama – had returned to Nyumbani despite his efforts to destroy it.
Then he discarded that notion aside like a scab from an old wound. Despite the numerous rains that had passed since he slew the last of the Erriten, the warrior retained an inner responsiveness to the presence of mchawi. And that awareness did not rise during Tuatat and Tibas’ description of the Jijiwi Champion.
If mchawi had not spawned Itu-Nusani Mujo, Imaro reasoned, then a Jijiwi sorcerer must have summoned the entity from some other nest of evil. Or, perhaps, the Three-Faced One was an intruder, or a portent ...
In only a few days, the time for the Shinda would come. Guguk was the Nubalas’ Champion, having defeated several others in competition for that peril-fraught role. Tensions rose high, for the claiming of the Gift from the previous rain’s Shinda always occurred shortly before the current one: a deliberate ploy intended to demoralize the defeated Champion’s people.
Imaro was willing to substitute for Guguk as Champion of the Nubala. But Tiba and Tuatat had made him well aware that Guguk would not easily surrender his status, even though Guguk knew his chances of defeating the Three-Faced One were minimal at best.
Imaro had no desire confront Guguk for the purpose of taking the Nubala’s place in the Shinda. He saw no reason to do unnecessary harm to Guguk. Yet Tuatat and Tiba knew that Guguk would not allow himself to be replaced without a fight. Imaro was the one who suggested a way to circumvent Guguk’s resolve – a way the warrior would not have considered or countenanced in other circumstances. Tuatat and Tiba had, with compunctions, agreed.
A scrape against the rock behind him reached Imaro’s ears. His muscles did not tense in anticipation of an attack, for he had been expecting that sound. He turned and saw Tiba standing beside him on the crag.
“Is it done?” the warrior asked.
“Yes,” the ayake replied in a harsh tone.
They were silent for a time. Then Tiba spoke again.
“Tomorrow,” she said. Without another word, she departed, leaving Imaro, once again,
alone.
* * *
The warrior woke to cries of distress coming from outside the dwelling in which he had spent the previous night. He had not displaced anyone from their home; the dwelling had been empty since its owners had taken their own lives after their children became part of the Gift to the Jijiwi.
Imaro knew the outcries did not involve him. He also knew the reason for the Nubalas’ dismay. Brushing memories from the night’s dreams, the warrior rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion and crawled out of the circular doorway.
Blinking only once before his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Imaro spotted several dozen Nubala gathered in one of the shallow, cup-like stretches of rock that connected the spires. Tiba stood solemnly in front of a dwelling. The people in the crowd muttered and shouted. Panic distorted their features and twisted their normally graceful gestures into abrupt shudders.
As he drew closer to the knot of agitated Nubala, Imaro caught some of the anxious words that spilled from their lips.
“Guguk is stricken,” said one man.
“He sleeps, and cannot awaken,” cried another.
“His skin burns like fire,” said a woman.
“Tiba cannot awaken him,” a younger man moaned.
“First Besu Jusa abandons us; does he now curse us?” an older woman lamented.
Imaro made his way through the crowd. He moved carefully, making certain not to shoulder anyone aside as he approached the dwelling of Guguk. When he reached the forefront, he spoke to Tiba, whose expression was downcast.
“What has happened?” the warrior asked.
Tiba looked up.
“The nyia-sickness has fallen upon Guguk,” she replied in an emotionless tone. “He will not be able to recover in time for the Shinda.”
“You have told me of this Shinda,” Imaro said. “Can the contest not wait until Guguk has regained his strength?”
“No!” cried Tiba and several others, including Tuatat, who was standing nearby. It was Tuatat who provided an explanation – for the second time, though that was known only to himself, Tiba, and the outlander. The other Nubala believed Imaro had only been told the essentials of the Shinda, but not its complexities.
“The time for the Shinda was decided by Besu Jusa and Wolowo,” the wachik said. “Both the Nubala and Jijiwi Champions must appear. If one side’s Champion does not, the other side can take everything the losing side has ... everything.”
“Someone will have to take Guguk’s place,” said Tiba.
“I will,” declared a voice from the crowd behind Imaro.
The warrior turned and looked at the Nubala who came forward. He was almost as muscular as the disease-felled Guguk ... but he looked less than imposing next to Imaro.
“But Guguk defeated you, Yahyi,” Tuatat said.
“Only in the wrestling,” Yahyi said with a touch of petulance. “I matched him in the lifting.”
“You would be wrestling against the Three-Faced One, not lifting,” Tuatat retorted.
“What are you talking about?” Imaro asked, giving no indication that he already knew.
“It is not your concern, outlander,” snapped Yahyi.
“Maybe it is,” Imaro said mildly. He held the Nubala’s gaze until Tuatat broke in to explain.
“When the time comes for the choosing of a Champion, the strongest among us lift rocks,” Tuatat said. “If no one prevails in the lifting, then the two strongest wrestle. The one who first throws the other is the Champion.”
“I see,” Imaro said. Then he turned to Yahyi.
“I will lift against you,” the warrior said. “If I win, I will be your Champion, and I will wrestle Itu-Nusani Mujo.”
Yahyi’s mouth opened and closed in astonishment. Then his mbama-marked face contracted into a deep scowl.
“You are not one of us –” Yahyi began.
How often have I heard words like those, Imaro thought before he looked at Tuatat.
“Did you not say I am to be treated as though I am one of you?” the warrior demanded.
Imaro looked again at Yahyi.
“You may not like it, but I am one of you, according to Tuatat’s word,” the warrior said. “Your people have no Champion now. Lift against me; whoever wins will be the Champion.”
“Why are you doing this?” Yahyi asked.
“I do not like cattle thieves,” Imaro responded.
* * *
The boulders Guguk and Yahyi had raised a few days ago sat stolidly on bare ground. Nearly all the Nubala had clambered down from their dwellings to watch the current competition between Yahyi and Imaro. As well, the guests from other clans poured out from the shelters they had erected in the shadows of the High Rocks. Only cattle-herders and sentinels remained behind as Imaro and Yahyi faced each other.
Save for the lowing of the cattle in their pasture and the sigh of a breeze blowing through the grass, silence hung heavily over the gathering. It was as though the Nubala had not yet come to terms with an occurrence none of them could have anticipated – at least not before the appearance of Itu-Nusani Mujo at the Shinda ten rains ago ...
Yahyi nodded toward the largest of the boulders, which was close to the size of a kneeling cow.
“That is the one Guguk and I lifted, outlander,” the Nubala said. “This is how we did it.”
With those words, Yahyi squatted in front of the boulder and seized both ends of it in his large hands. As the muscles in his back tensed, the rows of mbama-marks stood out in bold relief. Judging that his grips was sufficiently firm, Yahyi slowly unbent his legs, raising the immense weight of his burden from the ground. As he leaned backward, his legs straightened and his grasp on the boulder’s ends did not falter.
A grating groan escaped Yahyi’s throat as he held the boulder close to his chest. Eyes closed and teeth bared, he levered it upward until its top was above the level of his shoulders. For a few moments, he held it there. Then, with a shout of triumph, he released his hold and jumped back as the huge rock dropped and crashed resoundingly against the ground.
Yahyi said nothing to Imaro as he stood beside the boulder. The heavy pants of the Nubala’s breathing and the flecks of blood on his chest that marked where the rough stone had scraped his skin were the only signs of his exertion. The crowd pounded the ground in approbation of Yahyi’s feat, for no one – not even Guguk – had ever raised such a large boulder so high. Yahyi himself didn’t think he could lift it more than chest-level. But the outlander’s challenge had spurred him to greater effort.
The pounding of the Nubalas’ feet ceased when Imaro squatted in front of the boulder. He reached out and grasped both the stone’s ends, as Yahyi had done. The watchers remarked on the differences between the outlander’s physique and that of Yahyi. Imaro’s thews were smooth, while Yahyi’s were bulkier – the type of muscles that seemed best-suited for lifting large objects.
Imaro’s legs straightened. The boulder rose. It reached chest-height, then stopped. For a heartbeat, it appeared that the warrior would not be able to raise his burden any higher.
Then, muscles writhing like serpents beneath his umber skin, Imaro shifted his grasp, moving his hands to the bottom of the boulder. The crowd gasped, for it seemed certain that the heavy rock would slip from the warrior’s grasp. It didn’t.
Slowly, Imaro forced the stone to the height of his shoulders – and then higher than that. Only when the top of the boulder was parallel to his eyes did its upward motion end, as Imaro held the great rock as though it were an offering to the gods of the sky.
Imaro did not allow the boulder to drop. Instead, he lowered it, bending his knees again until the stone rested on the ground. Then he straightened: face emotionless, chest heaving, sweat bathing his skin.
The Nubala stared speechlessly. Yahyi’s mouth hung agape. The Nubala looked at each other in disbelief. It occurred to them that this stranger might, indeed, prove to be a match for the Three-Faced One. It also occurred to them that the warrior might also be more than human ...
“Look!” a voice suddenly shouted, shifting the crowd’s attention away from Imaro.
The voice was Tiba’s. Her finger was pointing toward the face of one of the rock-spires. A shadow was emblazoned on the red-gold surface of the stone – a shadow in the shape of a rock-lizard grown to gigantic proportions. But there was nothing anyone could see that could have cast such a shadow. Even as gasps of surprise and awe rose from the Nubala, the umbra vanished.
Tuatat approached Imaro. Speaking loudly enough to be heard above the uproar of the crowd, he said:
“Here is our Champion!”
The feet of the Nubala struck the ground in a drumbeat of acclaim as Imaro stood beside the boulder. Even Yahyi joined the approbation. Only he and Guguk could fully comprehend the enormity of what the stranger had done.
And Imaro noticed that one woman – young, but with fully marked skin that indicated that she was well beyond her puberty rites – was looking at him with an intensity beyond simple appreciation of his feat of strength.
* * *
Night had long since fallen, and the woman who had gazed at Imaro was in his arms. Earlier, he had learned her name: Miryat. And Tiba had explained the woman’s role in the rituals that preceded the Shinda.
Miryat had been chosen by lot to be the bearer of the Champion’s seed. Regardless of whether a Nubala Champion won or lost a Shinda – or whether he lived or perished – part of him would continue to exist among the people, if that were the will of the ancestors and Besu Jusa. Miryat had not yet received Guguk’s seed. Now that the stricken Guguk was no longer Champion, Imaro would be the provider of the seed.
Imaro’s hands caressed Miryat’s mbama-marked skin. It was as though his palms were gliding across tiny pebbles of flesh. If Imaro’s smooth skin disconcerted Miryat, she gave no outward indication as she lay beneath him.
Few words passed between them. Imaro strove to maintain a mental barrier between the present and the past. He struggled to banish his memories of other women who had lain beneath him; of the child he had not seen in more rains than he dared to count; of the salvation and suffering his choices had wrought ...
His decision to aid the Nubala was yet another fateful choice. What would it bring to the cattle-herders? What would it bring to him? He did not attempt to anticipate the answers to those questions. But he did believe there was scant difference between Itu-Nusani Mujo and his long-vanquished enemies, the Erriten of Naama.
He harbored no fear of the Three-faced One. He did not fear death, for he was Death’s Friend. And, was he not now giving life to the Nubala, as well as hope for freedom?
In the gloom of the dwelling that had been set aside for them, Miryat could see little of Imaro’s face as she clung to him. She sensed restraint, but not reluctance, as he thrust inside her. She did not know whether the outlander’s seed would result in a child. She only hoped that the warrior would defeat the Three-Faced One, and end her people’s nightmarish ordeal.
Miryat’s mbama-marks slid across Imaro’s skin as, spent at last, he removed his weight from her body.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Stay.”
She remained with him until dawn.
* * *
The sun shone bright, hot, and fierce on the day of the Shinda. At the same spot where the Gifting had occurred, the Nubala and Jijiwi gathered, each tribe on its own side of the unseen demarcation between grass and sand. The Nubala made their presence known with repeated blares from the hollowed horns of cattle; the Jijiwi responded with rhythms beaten from small, hide-covered drums.
A final cacophonous crescendo, accompanied by the braying of the Jijiwis’ camels, announced the coming of the Champions. As was the right of the previous Shinda’s victor, Itu-Nusani Mujo appeared first. The white-robed Jijiwi made way hastily as Itu-Nusani Mujo strode to the open ground – half-grass, half sand – that served as the arena for the contest.
As the Jijiwi Champion drew nearer, the people at the forefront of the Nubala spectators involuntarily stepped backward, jostling against those who were behind them. Even though they had seen the Three-Faced One on more than one occasion, his presence still unnerved the Nubala.
The man like being stood nearly seven feet in height, and the length of its arms and the breadth of its body were reminiscent of the great apes that dwelled in the southern forests. Its legs, however, were not ape-like, but fully human in length and proportion, and sheathed in lithe muscle.
The skin of Itu-Nusani Mujo was the color of ash. Because vision seemed to bend when looking directly at the entity, it was impossible to determine whether that pigment was real or decorative. Save for a white cloth loin-pouch, the Three-Faced One was naked.
And the faces ...
One of them was positioned forward on the Champion’s thick neck. The other two jutted from the left and right sides of a huge, bulbous, hairless head. The three faces were identical – each one a gruesome mélange of human and demonic features. The eyes of Itu-Nusani Mujo were crimson slits. Feline fangs hung from its lipless mouths. Short horns protruded from its broad foreheads. The tips of those horns resembled sharpened stakes.
Now the Three-Faced One stood silently in the vacant space, awaiting its latest challenger.
The lines of the Nubala parted. And Imaro stepped forward.
Like the Three-Faced One, the warrior was clad only in a loin-pouch. Imaro’s garment was made from cowhide rather than cloth. Some of the Nubala began to murmur misgivings as their Champion approached Itu-Nusani Mujo.
Hope had risen in the Nubalas’ when they saw Imaro lift the huge rock higher than Guguk and Yahyi had done. Now, seeing the way Itu-Nusani Mujo towered over the outlander, those hopes began to wither.
As the Champions faced each other, a loud voice from the Jijiwi side broke the silence.
“What is going on here? This man is no Nubala!”
The speaker stalked forward and stood at the side of the Three-Faced One. He was Zuburi, the umad, or headman, of the Jijiwi. His white garments clung closely to his long, lean frame. Though his skin was as dark as that of any Nubala, his features were somewhat narrower. Beneath his turban, his eyes pierced like those of a hawk as he glared at Imaro.
“Who are you, outlander?” Zuburi demanded.
“Imaro,” the warrior replied.
As with the Nubala, the Jijiwi showed no indication that they recognized a name know throughout the rest of Nyumbani. Then Tuatat stepped from the crowd and faced the umad. The wachik gestured toward the Three-Faced One, while looking steadfastly into Zuburi’s eyes.
“And this one is no Jijiwi,” Tuatat said quietly.
Zuburi opened his mouth to retort. But Tuatat was quicker to speak.
“When the Three-Faced One first became your Champion, we objected because he was not one of you. You said we were afraid to pit our Champion against yours, and it did not matter that your Champion was an outlander. Now, we have an outlander of our own to stand against yours. Are you afraid, Zuburi?”
“No, you naked eater of cattle-dung!” Zuburi growled. “But where does this man come from? Why is –”
“Silence!”
All the mouths of the Three-Faced One spoke simultaneously in a deafening roar. Tuatat stepped backward; Zuburi flinched. Only Imaro remained steadfast.
“This one will be of no more consequence than the others,” Itu-Nusani Mujo declared. “Begone – both of you.”
With as much dignity as they could muster, Zuburi and Tuatat made their way back to the lines of their tribes.
Then the Shinda began.
* * *
Imaro closed quickly with his foe. Earlier, he had listened to Yahyi’s account of previous contests, as Guguk remained unconscious in the grip of the illness Tiba’s magic had inflicted. Imaro had listened respectfully ... but he would battle Itu-Nusani Mujo in his own way, not that of the Nubala.
The combatants grappled, hand seeking purchase on bare skin. Itu-Nusani Mujo underestimated the strength of its smaller opponent, and Imaro was able to force the Jijiwi Champion to take a step backward ... then two ... then three.
Gasps rode from both the Jijiwi and the Nubala, for no other Nubala champion had been able to make Itu-Nusani Mujo retreat more than a single step. Now, the man-like entity was actually giving ground.
Then Itu-Nusani Mujo stopped moving backward. Planting its feet firmly, it lifted Imaro from the ground, and tossed the warrior as though he were a child. With jarring impact, Imaro landed several feet away. The Nubala groaned as their Champion lay inert.
Immediately, Imaro sprang to his feet. He showed no sign of any injury from the force of his fall. The Naglopa ceased their expressions of dismay. But their confidence in Imaro’s ability to defeat Itu-Nusani Mujo was beginning to fray.
Again, the Champions closed on each other. Imaro exhibited none of the caution that might have been expected after his first exposure to the Three-Faced One’s might. Instead, the warrior bent at the waist, wrapped both arms around one of Itu-Nusani Mujo’s thighs, and jammed his shoulder into the abdomen of his foe.
Unexpectedly thrown off-balance, Itu-Nusani Mujo tottered a moment, then fell to the ground with a thunderous crash. Imaro released his grip, sprang backward, and moved beyond the reach of the Three-Faced One’s flailing limbs.
Both the Jijiwi and the Nubala stared in stunned silence as Itu-Nusani Mujo clambered awkwardly to its feet. Both sides were well aware that Itu-Nusani Mujo had never before been thrown. Renewed hope kindled among the Nubala, while the Jijiwi experienced their first gnawing of doubt.
The central face of the entity glared at Imaro, who calmly awaited his adversary’s next move. The other two faces turned, to the greatest extent possible, to scowl at him as well.
“Am I still of ‘no consequence,’ Three-Faced One?” the warrior asked.
The eyes of all three of the entity’s faces blazed in a brilliant shade of scarlet as Itu-Nusani Mujo’s muscles suddenly swelled to twice their already-impressive size. All three mouths opened wide and issued a collective roar louder than that of any lion. Nubala and Jijiwi alike clapped their hands to their ears to lessen that awful sound. Imaro’s hands remained at his sides.
Still bellowing in wordless rage, Itu-Nusani Mujo charged toward Imaro. The entity spread its arms wide to forestall any avenue of escape. But Imaro made no attempt to evade his attacker.
At the moment a collision appeared inevitable, Imaro ducked beneath the right arm of Itu-Nusani Mujo, then stepped nimbly to the side of the onrushing entity. When Itu-Nusani Mujo passed him, Imaro leaped onto his foe’s broad back. He locked his legs around Itu-Nusani Mujo’s waist. Then Imaro’s fingers reached for the neck of the Three-Faced One.
In the meantime, pandemonium erupted among the spectators on both sides.
“What is he doing?” was the most common outcry.
“This is wrong!” more than a few Jijiwi shouted.
“How can the outlander throw Jijiwi by climbing onto his back?” Yahyi demanded of no one in particular.
But Imaro had no intention of attempting to throw Itu-Nusani Mujo a second time. The grip of his legs held his body firmly in place as Itu-Nusani Mujo twisted and spun in ferocious attempts to dislodge him. The teeth on the faces at the sides of the entity’s head gnashed perilously close to the warrior’s forearms as his fingers probed for what he had seen during his first grapple with his foe.
It was what he had hoped to see ... something that would make the battle less difficult, even though it was already one of the deadliest he had fought since the time of the Naama War.
There ... he found it! A crack between the neck and jaw-line of the Three-Faced One ... the opening Imaro needed.
He wormed his fingers into the gap, pushing it further open. Then he hooked them into an iron grasp, and the muscles in his arms coiled as he pulled upward with all his preternatural strength.
Itu-Nusani Mujo stood stock-still for a moment, before all three mouths opened like caverns, with a single word erupting from three throats:
“Noooooo!”
As the outcry echoed, Itu-Nusani Mujo hurled itself backward, hoping to crush Imaro beneath the entity’s greater bulk. Breath whooshed from Imaro’s lungs and his head cracked painfully against the ground. But he did not lose his grip, and the gap between Itu-Nusani Mujo’s jaw and neck continued to grow.
Now Itu-Nusani Mujo rolled in one direction, then another, scattering Nubala and Jijiwi as it strove desperately to dislodge its tormenter. But the Three-Faced One’s efforts were to no avail, as Imaro clung resolutely. And the gap widened with a cracking sound, accompanied by a keening wail from Itu-Nusani Mujo. No longer did the entity’s voices cry out in chorus; they bellowed separately in distress and desperation.
Slowly, Itu-Nusani Mujo’s struggles waned. Its outcries dwindled to whispers. Imaro, in contrast, redoubled his effort. It was as though he were attempting to rip Itu-Nusani Mujo’s head from his shoulders. But instead of coming loose, the three faces and the integument that connected them were peeling from the head underneath.
With a final pull, Imaro tore the three faces from their mooring. The body beneath Itu-Nusani Mujo’s head shuddered spasmodically, then lay still. Gasping from his exertions, the warrior rolled away from his foe and allowed the object he had torn away to settle like a limp rag on his heaving chest.
His assumption had proven to be correct. The thing that covered Itu-Nusani Mujo’s head had to be a mask, though one unlike any he had seen during his wide wanderings. And he had guessed that the mask would be his true adversary in the Shinda, not its wearer ...
As both the Nubala and Jijiwi spectators gathered around the two combatants, Imaro began to sit up. It was then that the substance of the Three-Faced One’s mask flowed upward and adhered to the warrior’s head.
* * *
Viscous, translucent fluid enveloped Imaro’s face. Beyond the foul substance, he could see only dim light and vague shapes. Directly in front of him, he stared into the central face of the living mask – from the inside. The face was expanding like a drinking-skin filling with water.
Looking to both sides of the mask, Imaro saw that the other faces were also expanding. And he saw the fingers of both his hands, locked around the edges of the mask as he struggled to tear the loathsome thing away from his head. But the mask clung to him like a burr to cloth; and to his consternation, he found that his resistance was weakening.
Still, Imaro strove. He did not know whether he was sitting or lying on the ground. He knew only that the mask of Itu-Nusani Mujo was attempting to usurp his will, and drive his spirit from his body. The living mask was part-demon, part-parasite ... a creature that had existed long before the advent of the Erriten.
The faces spoke to Imaro even as he fought to dislodge them. Insidious thoughts crept into his mind like tendrils of pure malevolence.
Why do you not yield, warrior?
You are strong; we can make you stronger.
Yield ...
Yield, and you will live like a god, and all others will bow to you in terror.
Yield not, and we will make you unseeing, unhearing, helpless.
Yield ...
Imaro’s only response was to amplify his efforts to remove the mask. The mask’s triune consciousness probed deeper into the warrior’s mind and spirit, seeking the source of a resistance stronger than any it had encountered during it countless rains of usurping the bodies of mortals.
The mask found what it sought – and recoiled in alarm. The mask had not heard Imaro’s name before this day, for the entity had always remained aloof from the undertakings of deities and sorcerers. Now ... it knew who Imaro was, and what he had done during his long lifetime. It sensed the stirring of the Cloud Strider within the warrior. It understood how hollow its promises were to one such as Imaro. And it recoiled as though seared by sudden flame.
In that moment, Imaro ripped the living mask partway from his head. But he could not pull it all the way free. Pain worse than nearly any he had previously experienced tore into the skin of his face as the mask continued to cling. Imaro’s throat closed on an outcry. And he continued to tug at the moist, leathery substance of the mask.
Then Imaro saw the shadowy shapes of hands on the mask ... hands that clutched and tore at its substance even as the agony of its continued adherence caused Imaro to rend harder at the mask’s rim.
And the mask’s consciousness spoke again:
This cannot be!
This cannot be!
This cannot be!
This cannot –
Then Imaro knew no more.
* * *
When his eyes opened, the first thing Imaro saw was a ring of faces above him – not the faces of the mask, but those of the Nubala and Jijiwi. He felt the hardness of the ground beneath his back. His face throbbed with pain, as though the skin there had been torn away.
He rubbed a hand across his face, then held it in front of his eyes. It was not blood that coated his fingers, but instead a noxious-looking fluid that resembled silty water and smelled like carrion. As Imaro looked at the hands of the people surrounding him, he saw the same type of fluid dripping from their fingers.
Imaro began to rise. His movements had little of his usual pantherish grace as the others helped him to his feet. When he looked down, he spotted scattered fragments of a leathery-looking substance. Some of the pieces were recognizable as parts of the faces of Itu-Nusani Mujo. Splotches of the same foul-smelling liquid that dripped from the fingers of Imaro and the others covered the pieces of the mask.
Then an inert form lying nearby caught Imaro’s attention. Disengaging from the hands that held him upright, he tottered toward it on legs that were still regaining their strength.
The warrior looked down at a desiccated husk only barely recognizable as the corpse of Itu-Nusani Mujo. Its skin hung loosely on its large bones, as though the thews beneath had wasted away. Its face bore only suggestions of features: a cavernous opening that was once a mouth; a nub of a nose; eye-sockets that were little more than slight indentations beneath protruding brow-ridges.
“We could not allow the mask to take you,” said Tuatat.
“Nor could we,” added Zuburi.
Imaro turned to face the headmen of the Nubala and Jijiwi. The umad and the wachik stood somewhat apart from each other, as did the people of their tribes. All were blinking in bewilderment, as though they had difficulty believing what they had just seen – and done.
“When it looked as though you might not be able to pull the mask from your head, we had to do it ourselves,” said Zuburi. “The cattle-herders did not know it, but Itu-Nusani Mujo was as much an evil to us as it was to them.”
“When we saw the mask crawl onto your face, we knew it could not be allowed to remain there,” said Tuatat. “It had to come off. And, thanks to you, we knew it could be done.”
“The Three-Faced One made us many promises when it first came among us,” said Zuburi. “He told us that with him at our side, we could take anything we wanted from the cattle-herders.”
Tuatat and some of the other Nubala scowled in response to those words. But no one interrupted the umad.
“What you Nubala did not know was that Itu-Nusani Mujo took what he wanted from us, as well, Zuburi went on, looking directly at Tuatat as he spoke.
Tuatat nodded solemnly.
“The taunting, the excessive Gifts ... all of that was by Itu-Nusani Mujo’s command,” said Zuburi. “You do not want to know what he would have done to us if we had not obeyed him.”
Again, Tuatat nodded. Zuburi turned to Imaro.
“Is the Three-Faced One truly dead, outlander?” the umad asked. “Can we ever be certain he will not come back?”
“There is one way to be certain,” Imaro replied. “Find every piece of the mask, and burn them all.”
“This, too?” Tuatat asked, gesturing toward the body of the Jijiwi Champion.
“No,” said Imaro. “Bury him. Whoever he truly was, he must have been a great warrior before the mask stole his spirit.”
“We will do that,” said Tuatat. Then the wachik turned to Zuburi.
“What now, umad?” the Nubala headman asked. “Do we continue the Shindas, or go back to the way it was before we started them?”
“Neither,” Zuburi said flatly. “We are leaving Muyum. For us, this place is accursed. If you want it, it is yours.”
With those words, the umad turned on his heel and walked away. The other Jijiwi followed him. Then they mounted their camels and rode to the west. For a moment, Imaro and the Nubala thought they could see the shadow of a gigantic desert cat stalking alongside the Jijiwi. Then the shadow vanished.
* * *
Imaro stood with Tiba and Tuatat at the base of the High Rocks. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the Nubala pastures and fields. A lingering, noisome odor wafted from the distant dark patches that marked the places in which the pieces of Itu-Nusani Mujo’s mask were burned. Flattened grass showed where the Nubala had danced in celebration of Imaro’s victory over Itu-Nusani Mujo, and the imminent departure of the Jijiwi from Muyum.
“You are going away,” Tiba said to Imaro.
“I never stay long in one place,” the warrior returned.
“You are welcome to stay here as long as you want,” said Tuatat.
Imaro glanced at his smooth skin, then at the rows of mbama-marks that marched across the bodies of the Nubala.
Different, he thought. Always different ...
Then he thought of Miryat, and the night they had spent together before the Shinda.
“I will stay,” he told Tiba and Tuatat. “For a time.”
