“I felt blood on his face,” she replied in a frightened whisper. “I felt blood ... but there is nothing there!”
IN THE SPIRIT GROVE, the defiler withdrew her blade from the water in the calabash. Slowly, the image of Kipchoge’s anguished face disappeared in a welter of ripples.
The defiler smiled. She poured the blood-water back into the pond; she no longer had need of it. Still sitting, she began to rock back and forth, the baboon skulls bumping against her bony chest. Again she called, this time in a sibilant whisper like the swish of a serpent through dry grass.
There was no wind, yet the trunks of the pale trees soon swayed in rhythm to the rocking of the defiler. The spiky crowns of leaves rustled as though they were shaking out the souls of the Ancestors of Aduwura. The defiler’s hissing chant continued unabated.
Odomankoma remained silent.
But the Ancestors no longer slept ...
KIPCHOGE OPENED HIS eyes slowly. A thin furrow of pain bisected his face from forehead to lips. Automatically, he reached up to wipe away blood no one could see.
A ring of concerned faces peered down at him: his wife, his son, the akuapem Ekupanin, and Kofi the diviner. At once, Kipchoge was aware that he was no longer in Ekupanin’s gyaase.
“Where am I?” Kipchoge asked, wincing at a new flare of pain between his eyes.
“You are in the abosonnan,” Kofi replied.
“The god-shrine? Why did you bring me to the god-shrine?” the healer demanded. The eastern accent that always underlay his speech was markedly pronounced.
“Do you not remember what happened?” cried Salifah. “You were listening to the drum-poem, looking as though you were coming down with dengue. Then you screamed, clutched your face and collapsed.”
A shudder shook Kipchoge’s lean frame. Salifah cried out in alarm, for it seemed her husband was about to lose consciousness again. With a visible effort, however, he calmed himself.
“Salifah touched your face and felt blood that could not be seen,” Kofi said. “That is why we brought you to the abosonnan. This is obviously a matter of ohoni – witchcraft. You will be protected in the god-shrine.”
Kipchoge held his hands in front of his eyes. On his right hand, he could feel blood trickling down his palm. On his left, he felt nothing. On neither hand did he see blood ...
Suddenly, the healer sat bolt upright, limbs trembling, eyes bulging in fear.
“She has found me,” he croaked almost inaudibly. “Even after so many rains, she has still found me ...”
“Who has found you, Kipchoge?” Salifah demanded sharply.
“Yes,” Ekupanin added, speaking for the first time. “I think it is time you gave us some answers, Kipchoge.”
“Answers!” shouted Salifah, her apprehension momentarily overcome by anger. “Can’t you see my husband is ill? Would you slay him with words before his sickness does?”
“Ohoni is more than a matter of sickness,” Ekupanin replied imperturbably. “Only when Kofi knows more about what struck your husband down will he be able to heal the healer.”
Both Salifah and Adjei opened their mouths to speak, but before they could, Kipchoge held up a shaking hand, indicating that they should remain silent. Then he leaned back to a supine position, though his eyes remained alert, restless – and afraid.
“You will have your answers, Ekupanin,” he said. “The answers your father sought, but never gained. You will have answers I denied even my own family, though the questions remained unspoken.”
Salifah and Adjei exchanged a troubled glance. Never before had Kipchoge indicated that he knew of their unrequited curiosity concerning his origin and his unsurpassed skill as a healer.
“After your father found me by the Spirit Grove, Ekupanin, I said I did not know where I came from. Later, when I learned more of your language, I ‘remembered’ pieces of my past, but not its entirety ... like fragments of a shattered pot that do not all fit together again. That was the first – and only – lie I ever told to my adopted people.
“Now, look to the shrine,” Kipchoge commanded.
All eyes turned to the triple dais at the center of the abosonnan. Dimly illuminated by a single fire-pit, the daises held objects sacred to three deities. On the center dais rested a large, circular shield of gold worked in curious glyphs and designs. This was the afrafokonmu – the Washer of Souls, symbol of Onyame the Sky-God.
Flanking the Washer of Souls were two ebony carvings, each about a foot-and-a-half high. They were stylized human forms, the bodies of which were cylinders with two stubby protuberances signifying arms. The heads, of a piece with the rest of the carvings, were large, flat discs. The features, mere lines cut into the black wood, conveyed a distinct impression of peace and serenity. On the legless torso of one, a suggestion of breasts was carved; on the other, male genitals. Between them stretched a long chain of wooden links that joined the two images at the arms. These were representations of Mawu-Lesa, twin deities of the sun and moon.
“Among you Akan, boy-girl twins are regarded as a blessing, for they are living images of Mawu-Lesa. But for the Gikuyu, the people of my birth, such twins are cursed. I was one of such a pair ...”
Again, troubled glances were exchanged over Kipchoge’s head. The healer had spoken of his homeland as an endless golden plain where the sun smiled and great herds of animals roamed. To the Akan, in their forest-and sea-girt enclave, such a country seemed unlikely at best. Never before had Kipchoge spoken of a darker side to his homeland.
“The Elders would have slain my sister and me outright the moment we were pulled from our mother’s womb,” Kipchoge continued. “For the Gikuyu believe boy-girl twins are born mganga – witches. But before the knife of death reached our throats, the priest of Mungu, the God-Above-Gods, saw a sign – an omen.
“At the moment of our birth, two crested cranes had flown
