“The Jijiwi claimed that their chief spirit – Wolowo, the desert-cat – led them to Muyum even as Besu Jusa led us,” Tiba said, closing her eyes again. “They wanted only the barren western part of the land, for which we have no use because it has nothing for our cattle to eat, and our grain cannot grow in the dry ground there. They left us alone, and we left them alone – at first.”
“Then you learned that the white-robes wanted more from you than you could ever have wanted from them,” said Imaro.
Tiba showed no annoyance at Imaro’s interjection. Tuatat noticed, but he showed no indication of resentment over the ayake’s implicit rebuke of him over similar behavior.
“It is as you say, Imaro,” Tiba agreed. “We had – and have – no use for the Jijiwis’ camels, or the cloth in which they hide their bodies, or the foul-tasting fruit that grows on the bushes they plant. But the Jijiwi covet our grain, and our water, and the flesh – not the milk or blood – of our cattle.
“In the beginning, they raided us, then apologized, then raided us again. We fought them, for we had vowed that we would not be driven from another land. Neither side could win. The Jijiwi could not penetrate our High Rocks, and we could only pursue them for short distances in their dry country. Yet the killing went on, with our people and theirs growing fewer as the dead grew more.
“As the blood flowed, the spirits wept. And finally, Besu Jusa and Wolowo appeared to both tribes, and demanded an end to the warfare. And they told both the Nubala and the Jijiwi to do something different to settle their disagreements.
“They said that once every rain, we should hold a Shinda between Champions of each people. The tribe of the winner would have the right to take a Gift from the tribe of the loser. And there would be no fighting between the Jijiwi and Nubala, other than the Shinda.”
“What happens in this Shinda?” Imaro asked.
“Wrestling,” Tiba replied. “The Champions try to throw each other to the ground, until only one of the two remains standing.”
Tiba fell silent. She opened her eyes again, and the sorrow her gaze conveyed stirred sympathy in Imaro, even though he was certain he had not yet heard the worst part of the tale. But Tiba would not be the one to tell it. She gave a slight nod to Tuatat, and the wachik continued the story.
“Sometimes our Champion won the Shinda, outlander,” Tuatat said. “And sometimes the Jijiwis’ man prevailed. When the Jijiwi won, they demanded only a single cow as their Gift, which they would slaughter and eat. When our Champion won, we would ask for a single camel, which we slaughtered – then used to fertilize our fields, for who would eat the flesh of such an ugly beast?”
Imaro nodded, even though he had eaten camel meat in the past ... but only when no other food was available.
“Then we learned that lifting heavy rocks makes a man stronger,” Tuatat continued. “And after that, our Champions won every Shinda . . . until, ten rains ago, the Jijiwi came to the Shinda with a Champion like none we had ever seen before – Itu-Nusani Mujo, the Three-Faced One.”
His voice caught in his throat as he spoke that name. Tiba grimaced and made a quick warding gesture with one hand.
“Itu-Nusani Mujo has the appearance of a man, but he is more than a man,” the wachik continued. “He is larger even than you, outlander. And he has ... three faces. So powerful is Itu-Nusani Mujo that in that first Shinda, he defeated our Champion with a single throw. Since then, none of our Champions has lasted more than three throws. Some come away from the Shinda with broken bones. Some have died. None of our Champions has been able to throw the Three-Faced One even once.
“From the time Itu-Nusani Mujo became their Champion, the Jijiwi have demanded larger and larger Gifts from us – not only more cattle, but also people, which neither we nor they had wanted before. The Jijiwis’ hunger for what we have grows, and we become weaker rain by rain.”
“Why do you not leave?” Imaro asked.
This time, it was Tiba who spoke.
“We did not want to be driven away again, Imaro. But after a time, there seemed nothing else we could do. But even as we were thinking of escape, Itu-Nusani Mujo sent me a vision in a dream. The vision showed me what would happen if we tried to leave Muyum. The Jijiwi would follow us wherever we went, and they would take whatever they wanted from us. And Itu-Nusani Mujo would lead the pursuit – and the taking.”
Silence followed that statement. Both Tiba and Tuatat gave Imaro long, searching stares, as though the hope they dared to harbor could be drawn directly from the warrior’s gaze.
“These three faces,” Imaro said. “Are they masks?”
“It is difficult to say,” Tuatat replied, repressing a shudder. “It is hard to look directly at Itu-Nusani Mujo. Our eyes slide away from him.”
“What we can say,” added Tiba, “is that even though his body is like a man’s, his faces are not human.”
“How is your Champion chosen?” Imaro asked.
“We hold our own Shinda to decide that,” said Tuatat. “So did the Jijiwi, until Itu-Nusani Mujo came. Guguk is the strongest Champion we have had yet. But even he does not stand a chance against the Three-Faced One. Still, he will try his best to prevail. We are not cowards, outlander.”
“I know you are not,” Imaro agreed as the wachik held his gaze. “Has your god, Besu Jusa, been able to help you?”
“No,” Tiba said sadly. “Besu Jusa is gone from us. It is as though even he fears the Three-Faced One.”
Then I will help you,” said Imaro.
They continued to talk until after sunset, and the Nubala could only speculate
