“Yes, a Zin,” the mganga confirmed. “A water-spirit; a creature of the Mashataan that preys upon the innocent and the unwary. Your spears cannot harm such a being. Things of this nature are my concern.”
The others agreed wholeheartedly, their bravado having abruptly vanished.
“I will take the drum out into the bush,” N’gonjo said. “When I return, our friend the Zin will receive quite a surprise.”
N’gonjo departed with the drum. When he reached the bush, he filled the instrument with enough rocks to approximate the weight of Wambui’s body. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated mightily. An incantation of calling formed in his mind. And soon the calling was answered. He placed those that answered inside the drum. Smiling with satisfaction, he replaced the drum’s top and carried the instrument back to Kigeru.
AFTER A TIME, THE ZIN awakened. He apologized insincerely to the Kigerans for his unseemly drunkenness. With visibly strained smiles, the villagers accepted the apology. The Zin noticed that even the previously hostile young warrior was grinning at him. Unconcerned, he took up his drum and bundle of ivory figurines, and left Kigeru.
Not far along the way to the next village, the Zin was accosted by a bent, wrinkled old man.
“Please, O Man with the Singing Drum,” the ancient importuned in a quavering voice. “I could not get to Kigeru in time to hear your wondrous instrument. Would you be kind enough to play it for me?”
“Out of my way, old man,” the Zin snarled. “I only perform for those who can pay for it.”
“Oh, I can pay well,” the elder said.
From his loose-fitting garment, he pulled a pouch filled with gold mizquals, the coinage of the faraway kingdom of Azania. At the sight of the gold, the Zin changed his mind. The creature took the proffered payment, then began to beat upon the drum.
Nothing happened. Frowning, the Zin beat the drum harder. There was still no other sound.
“Perhaps there is something wrong with your drum,” the elder said with a smile.
“Impossible,” snapped the Zin.
He beat the Singing Drum harder than ever. But no voice emerged from the tall ebony cylinder.
“Maybe you’d better return my mizquals,” the elder suggested.
With a wordless snarl, the Zin tossed the pouch into the vegetation by the roadside. With a cackle, the old man dove into the bush to retrieve his treasure. In the meantime, the Zin furiously ripped the top away from his drum. How he would punish the mortal girl for this insubordination ...
Suddenly, the Zin’s eyes widened in horror, and he attempted to thrust the drum away. It was too late – one, two, a dozen, a score of orange-and-yellow shapes flashed toward him from the open mouth of the drum. Like flagellating whips, the reptilian forms belabored the body of the Zin, striking his scaly skin through the fabric of his robe.
Then the old man – who was N’gonjo in disguise – stepped from the bush.
“Die, Zin, die!” the mganga cried in triumph. “You and I both know that only the sting of the scorpion-snake can slay you!”
Rapidly, the Zin diminished in size, its opalescent robe assuming its original form. Within moments, all its human attributes had vanished, and the Zin had shrunk to its natural size. And a small shell rather than a tall man rested in the dust next to the voiceless Singing Drum.
With a harsh smile on his face, N’gonjo stared down at the insignificant object. In the meantime, the scorpion-snakes that had answered his call slithered off into the bush, their deadly work done.
Then the vengeful mganga planted his heel on the shell that was the Zin, and ground it into a thousand fragments in the dust.
“It is unfortunate that the great god Mulunga gave but few brains to fools,” N’gonjo mused as he set fire to the empty husk that was once the Singing Drum.
“But it is fortunate for fools that Mulunga gave even fewer brains to the Zin,” he said as the drum was reduced to ashes.
When he returned to his kibanda on Lion Hill, N’gonjo was happy in the knowledge that Wambui would sing for him as before. He did not yet know that for the rest of her days, Wambui would never sing again.
KHODUMODUMO
IN 1977, I WAS LIVING in Ottawa, Ontario. A group of science-fiction and fantasy fans decided that year to form a group called the Ottawa Science Fiction Society (OSFS). The group decided to put out its own magazine, and I became its editor. A graphic artist named Dave Sweet handled the production end. We named the magazine Stardock, after a mountain in one of Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser stories. The names we rejected before settling on that one ... you don’t want to know. The first issue of Stardock came out in 1977.
As editor, I had the option of putting my own work in the magazine, and I exercised that option without hesitation, and without shame. “Khodumodumo” was written specifically for the magazine. It’s based on a Southern African folktale about a swallowing monster, a creature seen in the legends of other continents as well.
Maputu the goatherd was the first victim. He was grazing his animals near the precipice known to the villagers of Mwandishi as Damballah’s Hole when he noticed a sudden, strange restlessness among them. Bleating nervously, the goats began to edge away from the brink of the declivity, ignoring the grass baking in the searing blaze of the sun. Maputu gripped his spear tightly in his gnarled black hands and scanned the grassy knolls for signs of marauding leopards, packs of jackals or other predators. But he saw nothing.
Then he heard it ... a soft, slithering sound that rose from the depths of Damballah’s Hole ...
Gaping in disbelief, the goatherd watched as something glistening and huge lapped over the side of the defile. Shapeless, featureless, limbless ... the thing heaved yard after yard of pearlescent bulk onto the pasture. With frightening
