With almost visible contempt, the nunda shook the remains of Mzikala from its long fangs. Then, slowly and deliberately, it began to move toward Majnun. Gigantic feline thews rippled beneath its spotted hide as it advanced inexorably.
Majnun looked back at the guardsmen. They were awake now, perhaps wrenched from their spell-slumber by Mzikala’s death-shrieks. One-by-one, heads popped from the kibanda-entrances. At the sight of the giant cat and the ghastly remains of Mzikala, the Kantarans gasped in horror. The guards remained motionless, transfixed now by fear rather than sorcery.
Swiftly, Majnun turned and tore a spear from the unresisting hands of one of the guards. He knew such a weapon was a puny thing, indeed, for a nunda was to a lion as a lion is to a leopard. Still, he faced the huge sabertooth, which was even now gathering its great muscles for a leap. For a fleeting moment, its demonic green eyes glared disconcertingly into Majnun’s ... then it sprang.
Immediately Majnun dropped to one knee, bracing the butt of the spear against the ground as the shape of death loomed terrifyingly above him. Lean muscles tensed like coiled springs, Majnun waited as the nunda hurtled toward the gleaming point of the spear. Then, at the last possible moment, he threw himself aside as the huge feline impaled itself on the full length of the spearshaft.
A thunderous roar of pain and rage was the nunda’s first sound, and the noise shook the night as the beast struggled with the hard-wooden shaft buried deeply in its breast. Frantically, Majnun scrambled to escape the nunda’s flailing paws. But before the prince could get clear, a glancing blow struck him across the shoulder. Had he caught the full force of the blow, his arm and half his shoulder would have been torn away. As it was, Majnun was sent spinning half-conscious to the ground.
Dazed, he lay and awaited the death he knew would soon be his. But death did not come to Majnun. Instead, the prince heard cries of awe and terror from the people of Kantaro. Dull pain throbbed in his shoulder and dim lights flashed before his eyes as he dragged himself to his feet.
When his hazy gaze finally focused on the nunda, Majnun blinked in astonishment and dawning horror. For where the dying nunda should have been lay the body of a naked black man with a spear-shaft sprouting like a stem from his shattered chest.
As Majnun came closer to the man, he saw that there was still life in his body, despite his grievous wound. He breathed in short, tortured gasps, as if he were attempting to speak. As the Kantarans gathered around the sprawled body, Majnun knelt and held the pain-wracked face gently in his hands.
It was the face of Kimanu, his long-exiled brother prince.
“You planned all of this, didn’t you, Brother?” Majnun said softly. “You knew that Al-Imamu would send me here to investigate your reign of destruction. You also knew that Mzikala would be sent with me. It was Mzikala you wanted, in vengeance for naming you a sorcerer and causing you to be exiled.
“The waganga Damali sought you out and urged you to consummate your vengeance, for she wished to use your shape-changing power and the mkali to undermine the rule of Mbiyu, whom she hated. It was she who would place sleep-spells on the villages, then tell you who to slay in your nunda-form. She promised that when you fully discredited Mbiyu, you would rule in his place, with the help of the hill-dwellers. One day, you would become powerful enough to wreak vengeance on our father.
“Is this not so, Kimanu?”
The dying exile stared up at his brother. Demonic fires still gleamed in his eyes, but their light was fading rapidly. Still, he strove to speak.
“It is so,” he choked, blood seeping from his mouth. “You were always the clever one, Majnun.”
Then coughs wracked his agonized body and blood spurted from his mouth to mingle with that already welling in the hole in his chest surrounding the spear-shaft. With a final, convulsive shudder, Kimanu was dead – his exile complete.
For a long while, Majnun continued to hold Kimanu’s face in his hands.
I’m free now, Majnun thought. Free to walk away from Kitwana, and from the demands of Al-Imamu and the unwanted rank that was his only by circumstances of birth.
But he had given his father his word that he would return to Mlongo with either the head of the nunda or proof that the beast did not exist. He would return to the capital with Mbiyu and the bodies of his two brothers. He would not allow Al-Imamu the satisfaction of forcing him to break his word.
A sudden commotion from the crowd brought his attention back to Kantaro. The crowd parted, and two of his guardsmen appeared, dragging a struggling captive between them. The captive was Damali.
“We caught this one sneaking around the outside of your kibanda, O Prince,” one of the guardsmen said. “What shall we do with her?”
Majnun looked at the witch-woman. With her lithe, unclad form and fiery, beautiful face, Damali was like a night-goddess come to life. He recalled Al-Imamu’s command to “bring back the heads of those who spread the lie.” His mind conjured the image of Damali’s head lying at the feet of his father, eyes staring in sightless horror, blood encrusting the stump of her neck ... and he brushed the image away as if it were a spider’s web.
“Give her to the hill-dwellers,” Majnun said tonelessly. “Let her explain to them why their god is no more.”
DEATH-CATTLE OF DJENNE
THIS STORY MARKED THE first time I felt I had “got it right” in my quest to transform African folktales into North American-style fantasy stories. And I had to run it through three drafts before editor John Di Prete of Black Lite magazine was satisfied with the result. The trick was to somehow integrate the gist and cultural background of
