Death-Cattle of Djenne first appeared in Black Lite in 1976, and was reprinted in Maplecade magazine in 1984.
A hot wind sighed across the dry, desolate landscape, stirring the ragged cloth of the garment worn by a lone herd-boy. The lean, ebony-skinned youth, whose name was Ahmadu, leaned against his spear and surveyed the pitiful remnant of his peoples’ once-mighty herd of cattle. Vainly attempting to nourish themselves on dry, withered grass were a score of straight-horned, spotted bovines, along with a few small, hornless rhinoceros called nyuka. All the beasts were scrawny and weak; hardly fit food even for a jackal or vulture.
Shading his eyes against the merciless glare of the sun, Ahmadu stared up into the sky, which was a metallic, cloudless blue. As it had from time immemorial, the wet season should have begun by now, with Shango the Thunder God pouring rain from banks of billowing black clouds.
But Shango had been silent this year. No thunder had come, despite the entreaties of white-turbaned priests who daily clambered up high prayer-towers to importune the god to release his life-giving rains. Thus far, the chants and prayers of the priests had been to no avail.
Now, famine was beginning to stalk the land of Djenne. Sometimes, Ahmadu imagined that he could hear the rustling of the shroud of Naberi, the Taker of Doomed Souls, in the dry, incessantly blowing breeze. But it was always the wind ... only the wind.
As he stood guard over his wretched charges, Ahmadu’s thoughts wandered to the events he knew were occurring in Ougon, his home village, and other parts of the kingdom. Conflict was increasing between Djenne-the-City and Djenne-the-Land. As the dry season wore on, the dwellers of Djenne-the-City were still able to hunt in the southern forests and trade for food from the lands of the east. But in the wide, northern savanna of Djenne-the-Land, starvation was rampant. Already, many cattle and nyuka had died with the withering of the grass. Before long, even the remnants that herdboys like Ahmadu guarded would be gone.
So engrossed was Ahmadu in the disaster his people faced that he was unaware of the dust-shrouded figure approaching from the east ...
A MILE AWAY, A CONCLAVE of great importance was commencing in Ougon. The chieftains of the scattered rural villages of Djenne-the-Land had gathered to discuss what action to take now that the king of Djenne-the-City had proclaimed that the urban dwellers could no longer share their food with the people of the north.
Quickly, the assembled chieftains split into opposing factions. One, led by Dibango of Faroun, advocated that the herdsmen form an army, storm Djenne-the-City, and take the food being denied them. The other, led by Ahmadu’s father, Sankruu of Ougon, insisted that such a course was both fratricidal and foolish. The rains would come soon, they argued, if only they maintained their faith in Shango the Thunderer.
“Ridiculous!” shouted Dibango, crashing his fist onto the discussion-table after that argument was advanced.
Dibango of Faroun was a big man, with powerful thews swelling beneath the thin cloth of his garments. Beneath his gaudy turban of chieftainship was the harsh, uncompromising countenance of a born warrior. It was a man who had fought long and hard to defend his cattle and nyuka against lions, cheetahs and Imalian raiders.
But drought was an enemy he could not defeat with sinew and steel. To a man of action like Dibango, such a predicament was intolerable.
“I tell you we must attack the city before our food runs out and our warriors become too weak to wield weapons,” Dibango said forcefully. “Besides, it is clear that Shango has abandoned us.”
“Your course is out of the question,” Sankruu retorted. “Such an action would only lead to civil war. In that case, our empire-building neighbors to the north would quickly take advantage of the situation and add us to their domain.”
“Perhaps it would be better to live as Imalians than die as Ku-Djenne,” suggested a voice from the far end of the table.
The speaker was Bombaye of Kaboun, a chieftain well-known for his timidity. So scornful were the reactions of the others that Bombaye hung his head and lapsed into silence.
“We must attack the city at once,” Dibango reiterated. “Do you, Sankruu, hesitate because you fear we cannot overcome the soft-fleshed people who dwell behind walls?”
At that challenge, some of the more hot-headed chieftains began to shout war-cries. There had always been tension between Djenne-the-City and Djenne-the Land, but in the current time of drought and famine, the ancient rivalry was degenerating into an ugly hatred that would easily explode into violence.
“Again, I say there is no need to fight,” said Sankruu. “We need only wait a few days more, and the rains of Shango will come.”
“Are you a coward now?” Dibango asked with quiet contempt.
Instantly, Sankruu was on his feet. He, too, was a large man, for most of the people of the Sahanic countries were of tall stature and brawny physique. Unlike Dibango, however, Sankruu had the face of a thinker – a far-seer rather than w quick-doer.
The dark eyes of the chieftain of Ougon smoldered in a face that had become a mask of repressed rage. For he knew that Dibango, realizing that he could not win the cooler heads to his side, had decided to instigate action with his words. Publicly insulted in his own house, Sankruu would have no choice other than to fight the chieftain of Faroun.
“You forget yourself, Dibango,” Sankruu said coldly, his hand on the hilt of his sword. You are in my house, among my warriors. Does your sword-blade thirst?”
In response to Sankruu’s ritual challenge, Dibango rose and gripped his own hilt.
“My blade is thirsty – as are the spears of the men of Faroun,” he
