But the blacksmith showed neither rebellion nor resignation when they saw him, though his face and posture betrayed the weariness of a long night’s work. Wordlessly, he accepted the hornbill feather from the Summoner. Then he gestured toward a litter bearing a large object covered with a white cloth.
“Could some of you help me carry this to the palace?” Walukaga grunted.
Three bemused soldiers grasped handles of the litter, while Walukaga took the fourth. As they lifted the litter, the soldiers found the thing beneath the cloth somewhat heavy, though the weight didn’t appear to bother the blacksmith. Soon the soldiers were sweating and puffing with exertion as they carried their burden through the streets of Mavindi.
A curious crowd soon began to follow the procession. They wondered what Walukaga was up to. Had the blacksmith surrendered to madness, believing that he really could make a living iron man? Or had he cleverly constructed something especially exquisite for the Sha’a, hoping to exchange it for his life? Half of Mavindi was wondering what was under the cloth by the time Walukaga and his escort reached the palace.
Before long, Walukaga and his litter were in the Audience Chamber. A larger- than-usual number of courtiers and spectators were gathered in the chamber, for they longed to witness a repetition of the singular events of the day before. So focused was everyone’s attention on Walukaga that few paid much attention to the new costume the mjimja was wearing. Unlike his usual skimpy attire, on this day he wore a construction of dried grass that covered him from head to foot, with the exception of a pair of round eyeholes.
The Sha’a’s gaze shifted from Walukaga to the litter, then back to Walukaga.
“So, blacksmith,” the monarch said. “Have you brought me a man of iron who can walk, talk, and fight; a man with knowledge in his head and feeling in his heart?”
“I have, O Mighty Sha’a,” Walukaga replied.
With that, he reached down and pulled the cloth away from the object on the litter. Gasps of surprise swept through the crowd at the sight thus revealed. For on the litter lay a man-like shape fashioned similarly to the jointed toys Walukaga made for children. And it was beginning to sit up, of its own volition ...
Even the eyes of the Sha’a widened in astonishment as the iron construct lurched shakily to its feet. Due to the haste with which it was built, the six-foot iron man was not exactly pleasing to the eye. Its body was barrel-shaped and its limbs cylindrical. Its head looked very much like an inverted bucket. Holes in the metal approximated human features, and similar punctures on its torso outlined the musculature of a powerfully built man.
Beautiful, Walukaga’s creation was not. Nevertheless, it clanked and rattled its way to the foot of the throne, and bowed.
“I am N’tu Chuma, the Iron Man, at your service, O Mighty Sha’a,” the simulacrum said in a hollow, tinny tone.
Pandemonium swept through the chamber.
“Sorcery!” cried some.
“Djinn!” whispered others.
“A trick,” sneered the cynical.
“If I didn’t see him standing over there in that grass costume, I would swear Pomphis had a hand in this,” Mchipcho whispered to the Sha’a.
Before the Sha’a could reply, N’tu Chuma began to strut back and forth before the throne, singing to the accompaniment of clanking feet:
“I walk ... like a human walks,
“I talk ... like a human talks,
“I know ... what a human knows,
“I feel ... and the feeling shows.
“I’m made ... to Walukaga’s plan,
“O Mighty Sha’a ... I’m your kind of man!”
Over a growing gale of laughter, the mortified Sha’a shouted:
“Silence! Silence, all of you, before I have your tongues skewered!”
Immediately, all sounds ceased. Even N’tu Chuma stopped singing.
“I see, Walukaga, that this wonderful iron man of yours can, indeed, walk and talk,” the Sha’a snarled. “Though by what sorcery you’ve managed to accomplish this, I do not know. But there is one more test. Can your iron man fight?”
N’tu Chuma spoke before Walukaga could reply.
“F-f-fight?” the iron man quavered. “Oh, no ... I forgot...”
The wily Sha’a seized his advantage, and gave orders to two of his guards.
“Nyeusi! Give the iron man your sword. Mkaja! Engage our metal friend in combat. Let us see what kind of fighter Walukaga has given us.”
Hastily, the guardsmen did what the Sha’a commanded. Nyeusi’s sword has pressed into the iron hand of N’tu Chuma, while Mkaja unsheathed his blade and moved toward the iron man. As Mkaja advanced, N’tu Chuma tried to hide behind Walukaga. But two other guardsmen pulled the blacksmith aside, and N’tu Chuma was alone against Mkaja, who hesitated.
“Attack, Mkaja, or you will be food for the jackals before sunset!” the Sha’a shouted.
Spurred into action by that dire threat, the guardsman swung at N’tu Chuma’s blade. Clumsily, N’tu Chuma parried the blow.
“Wait!” the iron man pleaded. “Can we not talk about this?”
Mkaja was in no mood for conversation. As the courtiers gaped, he pressed his offensive. Another swing sent N’tu Chuma’s sword flying. Making noises that were anything but warlike, the iron man retreated as the guardsman’s sword dented the metal of its arms and torso. Then N’tu Chuma’s feet tripped over the edge of the dais upon which the Sha’a’s throne rested, and the iron man crashed ignominiously to the floor.
The jarring impact caused N’tu Chuma to fall apart ... revealing a hollow construct with built-up legs and built-in wires and pulleys to guide its movements. From the barrel-shaped torso crawled a diminutive, bleary-eyed individual who turned out to be none other than ...
“Pomphis!” exclaimed the Sha’a, in unison with most of the other people in the chamber.
“But if this is Pomphis, then who is that?” asked Mchipcho, pointing toward the grass-enveloped form everyone thought to be the Bambuti. As if in answer to the courtier’s question, the imposter pulled the costume over his head and stood revealed as Kariume, the eleventh son of the Sha’a, who was about the
