In the beginning of their respective sagas, Pomphis shared the stage with Imaro and Tanisha. Sometimes, he even stole the show. But I had always planned on writing about Pomphis’s misadventures in the time before he met Imaro. “The Blacksmith and the Bambuti,” which appeared in a small-press magazine called Escape in 1977, takes place during the Bambuti’s time as a mjimja, or jester, at the court of the Sha’a of Azania, one of the greatest kingdoms of Nyumbani’s East Coast.
Readers of the novel Imaro: The Trail of Bohu will be aware that “Pomphis” was not the Bambuti’s original name. At the Sha’a’s court, he was known by another name that was not exactly flattering. To avoid confusion, I referred to him as “Pomphis” in this story.
I might add that I had more fun writing this tale than any other to date.
Under ordinary circumstances, Walukaga the blacksmith would have been elated when the Royal Summoner presented him with a single black hornbill feather. Such a presentation meant that the recipient was invited to appear at the court of the Sha’a, the ruler of Azania. Rarely was such an honor bestowed upon a common artisan.
But Walukaga’s huge, calloused hand nearly crushed the fragile feather before he remembered that he would be required to present it at his royal audience.
The red-turbaned Summoner had taken a backward step when he saw Walukaga’s fingers flex. The relaxation of the dark hand reassured the functionary.
“I’m sorry, Walukaga,” the Summoner said. “But the Sha’a must have found a way to snare you. Otherwise, he would never have sent for you like this. By the way, I am instructed to inform you that the Sha’a expects your presence within the hour.”
“One hour?” the blacksmith bellowed. “But what about the hoe-blades I promised Keino Kamau?”
“Whose wrath would you rather face?” the Summoner asked. “Keino Kamau’s, or the Sha’a’s?”
Briefly, Walukaga contemplated those alternatives.
“Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “I’ll be there.”
The Summoner breathed a deep sigh of relief as he walked out of the shop’s door to return to the palace. Had the blacksmith refused to comply with the Sha’a’s bidding, the Summoner would then have been obliged to bring Walukaga by force – a prospect at once ludicrous and improbable, given the Summoner’s spindly frame and Walukaga’s burly bulk.
As he stalked like a white-robed stork through the streets of Mavindi, Azania’s capital, the Summoner sincerely regretted that in all probability, Walukaga would no longer be seen pounding hot iron at his forge. Still, the Summoner began to wonder who would eventually take the place of the taciturn craftsman.
Meanwhile, in the square structure that was his shop, Walukaga muttered curses to all the gods and demons he could think of as he snuffed out the fire in his forge and sent his apprentice home. A heavily muscled, ebony-skinned man of medium height and middle age, Walukaga was considered the best blacksmith in Mavindi – which meant he was also the best in all of Azania.
Among the common people of the city and its surrounding villages, he was popular because the implements he made worked well and lasted long. He made hoe-blades and picks for the farmers who tended the shambas; swords, spears and armor for warriors and hunters; axes to cut back the forests that encroached on the kingdom’s frontiers.
But Walukaga also shaped metal into wonderful likenesses of birds, animals, and people – all so lifelike that it seemed amazing that they did not breathe. The latter skill was the cause of his current predicament.
Walukaga exhaled heavily. Why must the Sha’a, the wealthiest monarch on the East Coast, be so greedy? Why had the Sha’a collected all the figurines Walukaga had made for the nobles and merchants of Mavindi? And why had the Sha’a previously sent a message proposing that Walukaga close his shop and come to work at the palace, making figurines exclusively for the royal collection?
Anyone else would have been thrilled at that prospect. But not Walukaga. A simple, practical man, he gained a great deal of satisfaction from the demonstrable value of a hoe or spear. Even the jointed toys he made for children brought the pleasure of play. The figurines were little more than a pastime for him, made on impulse during the time he spared from practical work. And that was all he cared for.
Thus, he had turned down the Sha’a’s offer.
The Sha’a had not appreciated Walukaga’s refusal. The monarch was puzzled and perturbed that Walukaga would forgo the chance for a life of luxury and ease in the palace. Yet for all his life-and-death authority, the Sha’a could not force the blacksmith to comply with his wishes. Like all artisans in Azania, Walukaga was free by law to ply his trade wherever he wished.
But the Sha’a was clever, ruthless and resourceful. Under his regime, Azania had gained ascendance over Zanj, its rival, neighboring kingdom. If the Sha’a was sufficiently confident to issue a Royal Summons, then he must have found a way to secure Walukaga’s services that even the Guild Judges would not be able to challenge.
Reluctantly, Walukaga removed his sweat-stained leather apron and began to pull his best clothes onto his heavy frame. He would honor the Royal Summons and hope for the best ... while anticipating the worst.
THOUGH THE SHA’A CHOSE to hold Walukaga’s audience in the shade of an outdoor pavilion erected in the garden of his palace, the pomp and splendor of his court was undiminished. Regal, imperious, aloof, the monarch sat on a throne carved from a single block of obsidian. A voluminous, azure-blue kanza swathed the royal form, and the cloud-white sleeves of his shati reached from his elbows to his wrists.
On his head, the traditional diadem of Azanian monarchs rested. It was a brocaded cloth headpiece that extended from his forehead to his chin. A dozen golden quills sprouted from the top of the headpiece. From its bottom and sides, the ndevu, a
