When Zuriye first recognized the arrows of the Komeh, her resignation and despair disappeared. She had resolved to meet death without allowing the Bagara the satisfaction of hearing outcries. Now, she cried out in happiness as Siki scurried up the woodpile and licked her feet and ankles.
The plumed warrior also made his way up the pyre. When he reached its top, he carefully cut through Zuriye’s bonds with his sword.
“You came, Bambullah,” she whispered as the ropes fell away. “I knew Siki would lead you to me ...”
“Well, not exactly,” Bambullah said. “Even Siki’s nose is not that keen. But Siki had more faith in my ability to find you than I did. I was afraid you were lost forever, but we were determined to search every inch of this land until we found you. But, Zuriye, why have these people bound you like this? Why were they about to burn you to death?”
In terse sentences, loud enough for all to hear, Zuriye told her father of the events that had befallen her since the day she had wandered from the Komeh encampment and was bitten by a jaculi. As he listened, Bambullah’s face hardened and his lips curled in fury and contempt.
“Then they all must die!” the Komeh leader roared when Zuriye was done. He spoke in Riverspeech ... and the Bagara moaned in terror when they heard and understood what he said.
“No, Bambullah,” Zuriye demurred. “Remember who we are. It would be an unforgivable waste to kill all of them. They will bring us a great price at the market 0f Fezan.”
“You are right, daughter,” Bambullah agreed after a short silence. “They still deserve killing ... but you are right.”
He called to one of his warriors, who came bearing a large pot of yellow pigment and a stiff-haired brush. In the meantime, Bambullah helped his daughter down from the pyre, and wrapped her in a makeshift garment. Then he glared at the Bagara.
“We will not need the sleep-spell for such as these,” Bambullah said. “Usually, we take only the finest to the slave-markets, leaving the rest to awaken in fear. This time, Zuriye, we will take all of those you mark with this pigment. Those left unmarked will be slain – in the same manner in which they intended to slay you.”
Zuriye nodded. Then she asked some of the Komeh to push aside the kindling that covered the carcass of the piobo.
“A brave man lies there,” she explained to her father. “Three times, he saved my life. I want to speak to him.”
Bambullah and the others withdrew from Zuriye. She gazed sadly at the congealed blood spread on the ground.
“You would have been appalled once you learned who my people are, Mgaru,” she said softly. “But my father would have made you one of us. We do not believe in witches. Those who are called witches are among our slaves.
“And unlike your people, we do not fear the Silent Ghosts ... for the Silent Ghosts are us ...”
She rose, and took the pot and brush from the warrior who held them. Then she went to the trembling Bagara. The first forehead Zuriye daubed in yellow was that of Nyimbi. By the time she was done, not a single living Bagara was left unmarked. Soon, they were bound and marched into the forest along the trail the Komeh had blazed on their way to the town. The Bagara people were now the property of the Silent Ghosts – the most rapacious slavers in all of Nyumbani.
ULTIMATELY, THE JABALI regretted their rude treatment of the Bagara traders. Weeks passed without further contact from the downriver town. Finally, the diop of Jabali sent a mtumbwi downstream to renew the profitable association the two towns had enjoyed for many rains.
When the paddlers of the mtumbwi reached Bagara, they saw no kibokos coming to tow them to the dock. Indeed, the dock itself was gone. The current in the bend forced them a mile downstream. The Jabali beat their way through the forest at the town’s flank. When they reached the town, they whispered prayers to their gods as they stared at a scene of utter desolation.
The houses were demolished. The lanes of the once bustling town were strewn with bones. Scavengers had come and gone, devouring even the fallen piobo, whose titanic bones lay stark in the sunlight. Fearfully, the Jabali crept through the ruins. They had difficulty believing the extent of the devastation – yet they were unable to discount the evidence before their eyes.
There was no sane explanation for the broken houses, the flattened shambas, the vanished people – for the number of skeletons the Jabali saw did not account for the town’s entire population. The only culprit the Jabali could conjecture was the Silent Ghosts ...
At that thought, the Jabali fled back to their mtumbwi and paddled furiously upriver. Before long, the tale of the fate of Bagara spread like fever up and down the Zaikumbe.
As the moons passed, the rain forest recaptured the shunned site of Bagara. Leopards prowled through spaces once occupied by dwellings. Among the people of the river, it was said that the Bagara had offended the Silent Ghosts, and the Silent Ghosts had therefore obliterated them. Many towns and villages they would be the next victims of the Silent Ghosts’ wrath, and they migrated from the river into the interior of the forest.
But never again did the Silent Ghosts come to the Zaikumbe – Zuriye’s final gift to Mgaru.
Publishing History
KATISA ... Cascade #2, 1983.
The Blacksmith and the Bambuti ... Escape #1, 1977
Pomphis and the Poor Man (originally, The Pygmy and the Poor Man) ... Anthos, 1980.
The Nunda ... The Diversifier #16, 1976.
Death-Cattle of Djenne ...
