Even so, only the impetus of her hatred prevented the young Bagara woman from turning back as the path she followed twisted deeper into the forest.
Suddenly, two oversized hyenas blocked her path. Nyimbi stopped short, her heart hammering in her chest. In normal circumstances, hyenas were not to be feared. Still, Nyimbi well knew the bone-crunching power of a hyena’s jaws. And she began to remember whispered stories of the Witch Smeller’s ability to control the actions of animals ...
One of the hyenas circled behind Nyimbi. Then she felt its snout press against her legs, prodding her forward. The other turned and trotted down the path ahead of her. Escorted by the hyenas, Nyimbi arrived at the abode of Ajoola.
Ajoola squatted impassively in front of his dwelling: a sprawling, ramshackle affair of sticks, grass, and leaves, altogether too large for a single inhabitant. The Witch Smeller looked at Nyimbi as though he had been expecting her arrival.
“Why do you come here, daughter of Ktibi?” he demanded.
Nyimbi was too frightened to speak. Then one of the hyenas growled; a ratcheting sound totally unlike the yipping bark usually associated with its kind. The signal was too obvious to be misinterpreted.
“It’s Mgaru!” she cried, panic loosening her tongue. “That – mganga – has bewitched him into leaving Bagara. He will never come back! There are others who will leave with him! The mganga is tearing Bagara apart! You were right about her, but the others are too blind to see it. You are the Witch Smeller. You must do something about the mganga! You must kill her!”
With an upraised hand, Ajoola halted the torrent of words.
“I have heard you,” he said. “You speak the truth. Soon, I will act. Now, return to Bagara, and say nothing about this meeting.”
The hyenas prodded Nyimbi back to the forest trail. She was too terrified to protest; Ajoola could see tremors racing across her fleshy torso. The Witch Smeller smiled. At last, the time had come for his ambitions to be fulfilled.
The Bagara were dangerously divided. If Ajoola could find a way to discredit Mweyzo and destroy the credibility of those who did not fear the Witch Smeller, then he, Ajoola, could become the new diop. No longer would he be compelled to live apart from all others, with only despised animals as his companions.
Though he could control the wills of animals, direct dominance over the minds of men and women eluded him. But using his mastery over beasts, and exploiting the unrest rampant in Bagara, Ajoola could soon become the only credible authority left in the river town.
Ajoola closed his eyes and tensed his muscles into small, rigid knots. A call issued from his mind ... a call that sped through the trackless depths of the forest until it touched an assembly of dim, primitive brains that had grown accustomed to the ethereal presence of the Witch Smeller. When the call was answered, Ajoola smiled again.
MWEYZO AND MGARU STOOD on the dock of Bagara, watching provisions being loaded onto a large mtumbwi. Zuriye stayed close to Mgaru, her fingers twined in his. The kiboko-boys urged their huge charges into position to tow the mtumbwi out past the current that sluiced around the bend in the Zaikumbe. Most of the people of Bagara were assembled around the dock.
The diop’s brow was furrowed with frustration and concern. When Mgaru had announced that he intended to return Zuriye to her people and renounce his own tribe, Mweyzo’s shock had equaled that of the rest of the Bagara. To the followers of Ajoola, Mgaru’s behavior was further evidence of the truth of the Witch Smeller’s prophecy. The flame-haired mganga, they whispered, intended to lead Mgaru and the band of young adventurers who would accompany him straight into the clutches of the Silent Ghosts.
Mweyzo’s reaction was more visceral. He was about to lose his son. He had attempted everything short of violence to convince Mgaru to remain in Bagara. But he was a diop, not a god. The weight of his authority did not press so heavily that he could compel his son to stay. When he looked at Zuriye, Mweyzo found that for the first time in many rains, he was in agreement with the Witch Smeller ...
Mgaru’s companions shouted farewells to their parents and sweethearts as they loaded the last of the provisions. The adventurers promised they would return before the next changing of the moon. Only the son of the diop would be forever gone from the Bagara. Zuriye had said the Komeh were a nomadic people who would be withdrawing from the river country once they decided she was hopelessly lost, and likely dead.
“There is no way I can change your mind about this, is there?” Mweyzo asked, not looking at his son.
“No, Father,” Mgaru replied. “You know Uncle Msumu has always said I’m just as stubborn as you are.”
“May Ngai be with you, then,” the diop said.
Then he turned and walked away from the dock, not wishing to witness Mgaru’s departure.
“You are certain you do not regret leaving your people, Mgaru?” Zuriye asked, gazing upward into the Bagara’s eyes.
“You are all the ‘people’ I need,” Mgaru replied. He did not mention his earlier farewell to Mkimba the rootman, or the tears that had glazed the eyes of both men at their parting.
They were about to board the mtumbwi when a frantically shouting figure burst through the crowd at the dock. Almost inarticulate in his frenzy, the newcomer pointed toward the forest beyond the shambas.
“Who is that man?” Zuriye asked uneasily. “What is wrong with him?”
“It’s Mkumbo, the hunter,”
