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The boy was now almost a man, tall and slim with fierce dark eyes. “Must I leave the forest before the power has come?” he said to the old man as they sat by the fire.
They were far to the west now in the never-ending forest and the boy’s birthplace was nothing but a distant memory.
“Try again,” said the old man, and the boy-who-was-becoming-a-man threw dust on the fire and called to the spirits of the forest. The fire sputtered and died.
“You will never have all my power but you may yet succeed,” said the old man. “The great name you seek cannot be given to you here. You must leave. Our time together is finished.”
“What must I do?” asked the boy.
“You must use the powers you have, and not wish for powers that have not been given to you.”
“It is the blood of my white father,” the boy said. “It is because of his blood that the forest spirits will not obey me.”
“You cannot change your blood. You must accept what you are.”
“And what is that?”
“You are a killer. You are the destroyer. You will become Matapa.’
“Where is the man I seek?” the boy asked. “Where is the man who has my name. Can your magic find him?”
“He is in the west,” said the old man, “fighting for the Americans.”
“No,” said the boy, “the Americans are not there.”
“They are secret,” said the old man. “Go to the west. You will find the fight. The Americans will give you money and teach you many things and you will find Mwene Matapa.”
The boy hesitated. “Am I ready?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” said the old man, “but I have done what I can and now you must go.”
“Why have you helped me?” the boy asked.
The old man grinned showing his teeth filed to sharp points. “You are my revenge,” he said.
“For what?”
“For many things,” said the old man. “For the teachers who beat me, for the miners who kicked me, for the white women who scorned me, for the settlers who took my land, for the Belgians who took my country. Now I am sending you to them, blood of their blood. “
“How will you know that I have succeeded?” asked the boy.
“Because I will be with you.”
“No, I cannot take you with me.”
“You are going to kill me,” said the old man, “You know it, and I know it. Soon, perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow, you are going to kill me.”
The boy hung his head for a moment. “I am.”
“I know,” said the old man, “and when it is done you will be strong.”
“But I will not have your power?”
“No.”
The next morning the boy left the forest, leaving behind the bones and the skin, but not the heart, of the man who been his guardian. He walked west to the place where Congo became Angola to find the man who called himself Matapa.