With that, the rootman rose and went into the second room of his house. Just as he disappeared behind the hanging, Zuriye’s limbs began to flail. Her foot knocked over the water bowl. Mgaru fell upon her, pinning to the rush mat, holding her wrists in his strong hands. With deep anxiety, he gazed upon her pain-wracked face. Then he became aware of the sliding of her naked skin beneath his as they struggled. Something stirred in Mgaru ...
Mkimba emerged from the second room. In his hands, he bore a small clay pot full of a thick, honey-colored paste. He snorted cynically at the flash of guilt on Mgaru’s face as he bent to the stranger’s side.
“You’re ‘subduing’ her quite well, Mgaru,” the rootman commented. “Now, hold her jaws open while I get this herb into her.”
Embarrassed, Mgaru pried Zuriye’s jaws apart. Then Mkimba poured the pasty antidote down her throat. Zuriye choked. Then her throat-muscles instinctively forced the medicine down her gullet. Her head fell back and her breathing grew deep and even, the delirium departed.
“She will live,” Mkimba said. “If you hadn’t sucked so much poison out of her, she would have vomited the herb, and died.”
He pushed the pot, which wasn’t yet empty, toward Mgaru.
“Here,” the rootman said. “You need to swallow some of it yourself. Don’t make me force it down your throat.”
For the first time in many hours, Mgaru grinned. Taking the pot from Mkimba’s hands, he swallowed the amber paste until the rootman told him to stop.
“Now, the two of you need rest,” Mkimba said.
Mgaru nodded agreement.
Just then, the hanging on the front entrance was swept aside, and Mweyzo, the diop of Bagara, entered. The telling and retelling of the story of the coming of the Jini-Wangwa to the Jabali, as well as the rescue of the strangely clad young woman and the slaying of the nsanga, had swept the entire town. So had the speculation of Msumu and others who were involved with the failed trade expedition.
The Bagara were still not fully convinced by Mkimba’s assurance that the stranger was not a Silent Ghost. The mention of that dreaded name sent rumors buzzing like wasps from a disturbed nest. Mweyzo decided that the time had come for him to personally investigate the matter.
Mgaru and Mkimba stood to face Mweyzo. Mweyzo and his son bore a considerable resemblance. They were both sturdy men of medium height, clad in knee-length ngias. Mweyzo had no need for elaborate headgear to proclaim his authority. He carried it in his eyes, his stance.
“Will she live?” he asked Mkimba.
“Yes. She will sleep until tomorrow’s sunrise. She will be weak, but she should be able to talk by then.”
“Good. Let me know the moment she awakens. I have some questions to ask her – about the Silent Ghosts.”
“She is no Jini-Wangwa,” Mgaru said quietly.
Mgaru glared hotly at his father. In his dark eyes burned anger that few men or women would have exposed before the diop.
“We can discuss that later,” Mweyzo said. “Now, come with me. I wish to hear your version of the story of this trip that bore no trade.”
“I want to stay with the stranger a few moments longer before we talk,” said Mgaru.
Father and son locked eyes. It was Mgaru who looked away first.
“All right,” Mweyzo said the moment his son dropped his gaze. “Don’t take too long, though.”
The diop turned and departed. Mgaru knelt by the side of Zuriye. He saw that the swelling on her arm had lessened considerably, and the punctures had become tiny, whitish holes. Her sleeping face was like a midnight flower waiting to bloom. Again, Mgaru felt a stirring of emotion unlike anything he had known before.
“Do not resent Mweyzo, Mgaru,” the rootman said solicitously. “You are his only son, and he expects much of you. One day, you will be diop in his place.”
“I know that,” the younger man said, standing abruptly. “But this woman is no more a Silent Ghost than I am.”
“I believe you, Mgaru.”
Mgaru nodded once, then departed to deal with his father. Mkimba gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping stranger long after Mgaru had gone.
WHEN ZURIYE OPENED her eyes, it was as though she had awakened from a dream already fleeing the grasp of her memory. Blurred, ominous shapes loomed high above her. She remembered the jaculi, and the hot poison pumping through her ... a sudden surge of panic accompanied the clearing of her vision.
Three dark faces peered anxiously down at her. Beyond the faces, Zuriye discerned large wooden beams intersticed with painted thatch-work. Beneath her, she felt the prickling of the straws of a mat. A rectangular cloth lay across her. Beneath it, she could sense that she was naked. The burning in her veins was gone.
Zuriye refocused her gaze on the three faces above her: three men – two older, one closer to her age. Their faces were black and broad-featured, not unlike those of her own people. The youngest man, who was leaning closest to her, wore a look of extreme concern on his face. Concern ... and something else. Despite the broad-bladed dagger this one wore belted to his waist, Zuriye knew she had at least one friend among these people to whom it seemed she owed her life.
Of the older men, one was obviously a figure of authority. In his hand, he carried an ebony staff tipped with a stylized human figure. He did not bother to disguise the hostility in his eyes.
The third face was an elderly one, lined beneath a white bush of hair. Still, his carriage was erect and his dark eyes were bright with intelligence. His face also mirrored concern, though of a different kind than that of the young man. It was the old man who spoke.
“Do not be afraid, child,” he said slowly. “We are your
