Moshanye’s spearpoint blazed like a beacon in the gloomy half-light. The weapon seemed to tug at the warrior’s hands, and it was this encouraging sign that banished the fear that had begun to creep into his mind, as it had in all the others’. Resolutely, he began to push his way through the vaporous fluid, following the insistent pull of his glowing spear.
After what seemed an endless journey, Moshanye came to the center of the monstrosity. The mist-fluid was thicker in this place, and there were not quite so many floating bodies in sight.
In the midst of the mountain-high mass, a single figure hovered. Like Moshanye, the figure moved freely through the mist-fluid. Unlike Moshanye, however, the shape at the nucleus of the swallowing-monster possessed no discernible outline. It was a man ... naked and hairless, with eyes that glowed with more-than-human vitality. The flesh of his body appeared to merge with that of the monster, so that the darkness of his skin shaded almost imperceptibly into the grayish murk of the mist-substance.
“You are Khodumodumo,” Moshanye said.
“Yes, that is who I am,” the man sneered. “I was driven from Mwandishi more rains ago than you can count ... driven away for spreading the Word of the Mashataan, the Demon Gods. The fools! They clung to the worship of pitiful Nyame. They did not heed my message to look to the south, where the True Worshippers dwell. ‘Witch-man,’ they called me, and they drove me away at spear-point.”
“You are mad, Khodumodumo,” Moshanye said.
“Mad?” the witch-man cried. “Was it madness led me to the deeps of the caves at Land’s End, where the last of the Mashataan dwell? Was it madness that caused me to surrender my soul to them, so that they could fashion this invincible form around me, made from the substance of life itself? Am I mad to keep my part of the bargain: to collect as many lives as I can, then return to Land’s End with new slaves for the Mashataan? Once I pass through this accursed mountain, nothing will stand in my path!”
“Nothing?” Moshanye said in a voice that rang like thunder. “Do you not know who I am? Do you not recognize this?”
He held forth his spear to that its light blazed fully into Khodumodumo’s face. The witch-man shrank back, fear flickering suddenly in his eyes.
“No!” Khodumodumo shrieked. “I will destroy you!”
From the substance of the mist-fluid surrounding Moshanye, python-thick tendrils of pseudo-flesh formed faster than the eye could follow. With lightning speed, they whipped around the warrior’s body and constricted with crushing force. Moshanye’s ribs cracked; the breath was forced from his lungs; his eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets.
But his right hand still gripped the shining spear. Straining his thews to their utmost, he used the incandescent blade to slice through the pseudopods that were squeezing the life from him. Falling away, they returned to the substance from which they came. With a final surge of strength, Moshanye hurled his weapon straight at the heart of Khodumodumo.
The witch-man had no time to dodge. The spear flashed through the mist-fluid as though it were flying through empty air. As the weapon plunged halfway through Khodumodumo’s body, the witch-man bellowed in pain and despair. Then the mist-fluid began to evaporate ... as did Khodumodumo. As the swallowing-monster lost more and more substance, the witch-man screamed terrible imprecations even as his outline became tenuous to the point of invisibility.
Within moments, the entire bulk of the swallowing-monster was gone – vanished like the smoke of a cooking-fire, or the steam from boiling water. And the mid-afternoon sun burned hotly on a mountain pass filled with slime-streaked humans and animals, all slowly regaining their senses.
NJEMJA WAS THE FIRST to rise and gaze with wonder upon Mwandishi’s savior. Soon after, the other villagers were pulling themselves to their feet, and gathering around the warrior. All, from Maputu the goatherd to the last person to disappear down Khodumodumo’s maw were alive, if somewhat disoriented.
Once their legs had steadied, the animals bolted for the open plain. Later, the Mwandishi would recover their livestock. For now, they could only stare with reverent awe at Moshanye.
Finally, Njemja spoke.
“What is your name, Warrior, that we may sing the Song of Triumph for this great deed you have done?”
Moshanye looked haggard, and his spear no longer shone like the sun. Still, in a kindly tone he said: “Let us not stand in this place until the sun sets. Come, let us return to Mwandishi. There is much rebuilding to do.”
Then, like a herd of cattle just rescued from the attack of a lion, the people followed Moshanye back to their village. No further questions were asked.
IT WAS A FEW HOURS past dawn of the next day. The people of Mwandishi had risen early from the shelters they’d built from the ruins of their village. One shelter stood taller and more substantial than all the rest. It was the one that had been erected for Moshanye. Once he had told them of his battle against Khodumodumo, the villagers had offered Moshanye everything that remained to them: the fattest cattle, the keenest weapons, the most beautiful brides, the chieftainship of the tribe.
But Moshanye declined it all. He was weary, and wanted only to rest. The people of Mwandishi acceded to his request.
Now, with the passing of the night, the people went to Moshanye’s shelter to pay further homage to their hero. All except – once again – Ayoti.
The people’s minds had been too encumbered with the events of the previous two days to inquire as to why she had not been swallowed by Khodumodumo, or why her belly was now flat. But a meaningful glance had passed between her and Moshanye the night
