The prey was tiny, almost insignificant ... but an easy meal, nonetheless. The beast’s mouth gaped open, teeth longer than a lion’s spiking its jaws.
SWIFTLY, THE GREAT mtumbwi sliced through the waters of the Zaikumbe. Fifty strong black arms powered the paddles that propelled the trading-craft, with little help from the river’s slow current. Trade goods of many varieties were piled high in the interior of the mtumbwi. The presence of that pile eloquently bespoke the lack of success of its owners in their commercial expedition to the upriver town of the Jabali people.
Mgaru, leader of the traders, ruefully recalled the mood of the Jabali. They had been in no disposition to haggle over the merit of the handiwork of Mgaru’s people, the Bagara. Only one night before, the Jabali villages had been raided by the Jini-Wangwa – the Silent Ghosts. Senselessly, the Jabali had slumbered while the Silent Ghosts carried away the strongest men and comeliest women. Understandably terror-stricken, the Jabali had greeted the shrewd-bargaining Bagara with sullen words and threatening spear-points.
The Bagara had thus been forced to return downstream without the dibatag-hides and woven raffia mats they had hoped to obtain from the Jabali for their own surplus pottery and spoons. The disappointment of the Bagara was tempered by the unsettling reality of the Silent Ghosts striking so near to their own environs. So distracted were the men in paddling the mtumbwi that they almost missed the grim scene on the riverbank.
But Mgaru’s eyes were alert. He spotted the nsanga lumbering toward the still form of the woman even as the mtumbwi swept past.
“Turn toward the bank!” he cried abruptly.
The paddlers veered sharply, almost upsetting their cargo. Mgaru snatched up a war spear lying near him. His practiced feet rode the rocking of the dugout craft as he took swift, careful aim at the gigantic reptile.
“Nsanga!” some of the other Bagara cried incredulously. For most of them, this was their first glimpse at a creature so rare that it seemed more legendary than real.
Mgaru cocked his spear-arm, muscles bunching beneath his jet-black skin. Then he hurled the heavy spear with so much force that he nearly fell from the unsteady deck of the mtumbwi.
Flashing through the hot, damp air, the spear harpooned the long neck of the nsanga. Bellowing in pain, the reptile turned to confront its attackers. Seeing the dugout and the men who filled it, the nsanga lurched toward the water.
Before the reptile could reach the mtumbwi, a shower of spears tore into its scaly hide. Following Mgaru’s example, the other Bagara had hurled their weapons at the onrushing monster. Large though their dugout was, they knew the nsanga could easily overturn it and crush them in the water like so many minnows. So the men threw their weapons harder than they ever had before.
Spear-shafts quilling its huge body, the nsanga died on the riverbank. Blood seeped into the water. Never again would the nsanga frighten crocodiles from their prey. Soon, the lesser reptiles would feast on the nsanga’s flesh ...
“Move closer to the shore,” Mgaru ordered. “I saw someone ... whoever it is might still be alive.”
The Bagara maneuvered their craft into the shallow water near the bank. While Mgaru and several others splashed toward the prone figure of Zuriye, the men still in the mtumbwi used their spears to fend off crocodiles attracted by the blood of the nsanga. Frustrated by the sharp spear-points, the crocodiles lurked just beneath the surface of the river, floating like long-snouted sentinels of death.
Mgaru was the first to reach Zuriye. Carefully, he turned her onto her back. For a long moment, he gazed down at the young woman, entranced by her exotic garb and decorations. Then his attention was drawn to the pair of puffy, discolored wounds on her arm. Her breathing was almost imperceptible, and her skin seemed to burn under Mgaru’s hands.
A quick glance at the bisected carcass of the jaculi was more than sufficient to spur Mgaru into action. Even now, he might be too late to save this wondrous stranger. Without hesitation, he covered the bite with his lips and began to suck poisoned blood. The first mouthful he spat out burned his tongue. He knew the burning would become worse before he was through.
The others who had accompanied Mgaru ashore stood in a semicircle around him and Zuriye. They stared in disbelief at the behavior of their young leader.
“What in the name of Ngai do you think you’re doing?” demanded Msumu, who was an older man with gray streaks in his bush of hair. “That’s jaculi venom you’re sucking, man! You could be dead before we make it back to Bagara.”
For reply, Mgaru spat out another mouthful of blood and returned to his task.
“Look at her clothes,” the cautious Msumu continued. “Look at the silver on her mouth and breasts. This could be one of the Silent Ghosts! Are you going to risk your life for one of them?”
“Don’t be a fool, old man,” Mgaru snapped, lips burning from the poisoned blood. “Ghosts don’t die from poison! Besides, she’s solid enough, isn’t she?”
“Before they drove us off, the Jabali showed us strange footprints around the walls of their town.” Msumu argued. “That proves the Silent Ghosts are solid ... solid enough to leave marks.”
Mgaru did not respond. The other Bagara, however, began to mutter nervously and stare suspiciously at the unconscious stranger.
Despite the fire spreading through his mouth, Mgaru continued to work on the wound until he was certain he had delayed the advance of the venom in the woman’s blood. She moved weakly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Mgaru rose and stared hard at the restive crewmen.
“I think I’ve slowed the poison, but she needs the rootman,” he said. “Msumu, you help me get her into the boat. The rest of you will cut off the head of the nsanga. We’re taking that back to Bagara,
