“AAAAOOOORRR!” Mbodze roared as the bees’ stings reached even the fire-pits of his eyes. Blindly, the zimwe stumbled past Marimira ... and straight into the blazing inferno of the cook-fire.
The demon’s cries became louder as the flames ate at his flesh. As Marimira stared in disbelief, Mbodze’s huge form was diminishing, shrinking rapidly. And his voice was losing volume.
Within moments, the fire was dead ... and Mbodze was nowhere in sight. Nowhere, that is, until Marimira ventured toward the remains of the fire, and saw a small, smoking, blood-red stone resting amid the hot ashes.
By then, Marimira had seen enough. Like a frightened gazelle, she fled from the scene of the zimwe’s downfall. This time, the foliage and the rocks remained silent and still.
IN NYANGE, PEOPLE SADLY shook their heads whenever they passed the compound of Matezi ... Marimira’s mother. Since her daughter had disappeared, many search-parties of warriors had failed to find her. Certain that Marimira was dead, Matezi had allowed the yard of her compound to deteriorate.
But one day, Matezi was seen vigorously sweeping the clutter from her yard.
“Why are you sweeping what you have neglected for so long?” her friends inquired.
“A sparrow came to me and sang, ‘Mother, sweep your yard. Marimira is coming,’” Matezi replied. “So I am doing just that.”
The friends shook their heads and walked away, certain that Matezi’s grief had stolen her mind.
But when Marimira appeared in Nyange a few hours later, all the sadness and skepticism turned to joy and laughter.
And in the Country of Ghosts, a sparrow sang once, then fell silent.
ISHIGBI
IN 1981, SUSAN M. SHWARTZ, a prominent teacher, writer and editor in the fantasy-fiction field, issued a call for submissions to an anthology of stories about witches. Its title was Hecate’s Cauldron – an homage to the Greek goddess of ghosts, witchcraft and black magic. By that time, the first Imaro novel had been accepted for publication, and several of my stories had appeared in anthologies. Susan was a ware of my work, and was very open to the idea of an African-based witch tale.
The story I came up with is “Ishigbi” – a name that basically bewitched its way into my mind. Witches have made their homes in Africa for thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – of years, and they have practiced their craft under many guises, from the thakati of South Africa to the mwanamke mchawi of the continent’s East Coast. The painted, masked, prancing “witch doctor” stereotype is little more than an errant scratch on the surface of the reality of African witchcraft.
For “Ishigbi,” I chose a theme of duality: twins, who are considered to be accursed in many African societies, and the vastly different traditions of West and East Africa. It’s a story of contrasting cultures, as well as a suppressed connection from the past.
Other authors who had stories in Hecate’s Cauldron, which was published in 1982, include Andre Norton, C.J. Cherryh, Tanith Lee and Jane Yolen. Heady company, indeed.
By the way, the anthology contained 13 stories ...
The trees grew stark and pale in the Spirit Grove, their ash-colored boles reflecting dim moonlight, their single tufts of leaves spreading like crowns of black spikes in the night sky. Here dwelt the Ancestors of the city of Aduwura. In silence, the Ancestors slept beneath the pale palm trees until Odomankoma, God of Death, permitted them to live again. In silence, the Ancestors slept as the feet of the defiler stalked purposefully between the trees.
The defiler was not of Aduwura, or any other Akan city. Akan women were stout; this one was long and lean as a cheetah. Akan women wore bright-patterned garments that swathed their entire bodies; this one was naked save for a brief skin loincloth and a leather neck-thong from which a pair of baboon skulls hung over flat, sagging breasts. Akan women wove their hair into scores of tiny plaits; this one’s shaved scalp glistened in the moonlight. Akan woman spoke softly in the grove, as did Akan men; this one muttered maledictions in a low, feral snarl ...
When the defiler reached her destination – a shallow, green-scummed pond in the midst of the trees – she halted and laid down the large skin bag she had carried over one bony shoulder. Reaching into the opening of the bag, she extricated a calabash and an iron fang of a dagger with a dully gleaming blade.
The defiler laid the dagger aside and plunged the calabash into the stagnant pond, filling the vessel halfway to its brim. Carefully, she removed the algae scum, dipping the end of her loincloth into the water until the surface was clear. Despite her advanced age, the defiler’s movements were fluid. But her face was a seamed mask of malice, disfigured by burn scars.
Once again, her hand curled around the hilt of the dagger. Eyes closed, she sat still. Then a high-pitched, trilling whine came from her pursed lips. The call was answered ...
It was a dik-dik that that answered the summons of the defiler: an antelope the size of a small dog, with a delicately tapered muzzle and tiny, pointed horns. The dik-dik, sacred to the Ancestors, advanced reluctantly toward the defiler. The trilling whine continued until the antelope came within the woman’s reach.
Abruptly, her eyes opened, the trilling ceased, and the trembling dik-dik tensed to make a single, prodigious bound to safety. But the defiler’s hand moved with cobra quickness, and the dagger sliced through the dik-dik’s neck.
The animal’s head flew into the pond. Swiftly, the defiler seized its small, convulsing body. Holding its severed neck directly over the calabash, the defiler allowed the antelope’s blood to pour into the water until wine-dark liquid lapped its brim. Then she discarded the carcass, tossing it into the pond. The splash seemed ... muted.
The defiler then chanted an incantation, strange syllables spilling from her lips. Although she did not touch the calabash, the water began to swirl. The dark surface
