Imaro: Book I Page 11

  Striking with the swiftness of a cobra, the warrior thrust the point of his dagger through the river-beast’s eye, and into its tiny brain. After a convulsive shudder that sent mud and blood flying in all directions, the huge creature finally lay still.

  Imaro’s gaze took in the length of the beast: its long jaws; short, splayed legs; and scaly hide that looked as hard as an Ilyassai shield. He could see how this creature of the water could be as formidable as Ngatun. It was Imaro’s first encounter with a crocodile, and the creature was as alien to him as the monstrosities that inhabited the Place of Stones.

  Then he turned to the men whose lives he had just saved. Already, he had pulled his dagger out of the crocodile’s eye, and the weapon remained in his hand, blood dripping from its blade.

  The fishermen stared at Imaro as though he was as dangerous as the crocodile. The man who had been caught in the beast’s jaws lay on the riverbank. He was attempting to use his hands to stanch the flow of blood from the wounds the crocodile’s teeth had torn in his leg. The other man crouched protectively beside his wounded companion. In one hand, he held a bladed weapon that was as long as a simi, but sharpened on only one side. It looked more suitable for slashing than for stabbing.

  At close quarters, the differences between these men and any others Imaro had seen before were more pronounced. Their hair was braided into rows that ridged their scalps. Raised dots of skin formed swirling patterns on their faces and the upper part of their bodies. Their eyes were round and white in the darkness of their faces, and Imaro knew he was as strange to them as they were to him. But then, all his life, he had been the strange one.

  He lowered his weapon. With his other hand, he pointed toward the wounded fisherman.

  “He will die if you don’t stop his bleeding,” he said.

  The two men looked at each other. The one the crocodile’s jaws had spared lowered his own weapon, and spoke to Imaro. Imaro found the speech unintelligible, though he thought he could hear hints of the tongue of the Tamburure tribes. He spread his hands and shook his head, indicating that he did not understand what the man was saying. The other man pressed his lips together in frustration. Then Imaro wiped the bloody blade of his dagger against his garment, returned the weapon to its sheath, and made tying motions with his hands.

  After a moment, the fisherman sheathed his own weapon and went into the nearby foliage, in search of vines. The wounded man continued to stare at Imaro. With what he hoped was a reassuring smile, the warrior turned his attention to the carcass of the crocodile.

  He almost expected the river-beast to rise again as he approached it. But the crocodile remained still as he placed one placed one foot on its hide, grasped the shaft of his spear in both hands, and wrenched the weapon free in a shower of blood.

  Then, grunting with the strain of the effort, he reached down and heaved the dead crocodile off the riverbank and back into the water. For a moment, the carcass floated lazily and began to drift downstream. It only moved a short distance before the jaws of other crocodiles broke the surface and dragged the beast Imaro had killed back underwater.

  When Imaro turned back to the fishermen, he saw that they were once again staring at him, mouths agape. The second man had returned, arms laden with lianas and leaves. The two of them, together, would have had difficulty pushing the carcass of the crocodile into the river, and indeed, might not have been able to accomplish the feat. But Imaro had done it easily.

  The wounded man groaned, and his companion shifted his attention from Imaro to more urgent matters. Imaro gestured to indicate an offer of assistance, and the fisherman, after a brief hesitation, accepted his aid. Soon, a lattice of leaves and vines covered the wounded man’s leg. The man did not cry out during the ungentle ministrations. An Ilyassai would not have done so, either, Imaro observed. His opinion of the other men rose.

  When the wrapping was done, all three men leaned against the side of the hollowed-out log, which still contained the net filled with fish. The fisherman who had escaped the crocodile’s jaws gave Imaro a long, searching gaze. Imaro did not look away.

  Finally, as though satisfied by what he had seen in Imaro’s eyes, he pointed to himself and said:

  “Msuli.”

  The wounded fisherman made a similar gesture.

  “Busa,” he said.

  After a moment, the Ilyassai pointed to himself.

  “Imaro,” he said.

  And for the first time in his life, Imaro had friends.

  CHAPTER THREE

  During the time that passed while Busa recovered from the wounds the teeth of the crocodile had inflicted, Imaro discovered a great deal about the forest and the river – lessons that might have cost him his life if he had not had help in learning them.

  The name of the river, Busa and Msuli told him, was the Damba Bolong. The woodland was known as the Kajua. The two men’s people were the Mtumwe, one of dozens of tribes that dwelled along the river’s edge, farther downstream. Of the vast, flat plain that lay beyond the border of trees, they knew nothing.

  The area of the Kajua in which Imaro had found Busa and Msuli was considered remote and dangerous by the river people. But the fishing was good there, and the two men decided that the reward would be well worth the risk. Had Imaro not slain the crocodile and saved their lives, the Mtumwe would have mourned the passing of Msuli and Busa after it became evident they would not be returning – and they would have cursed the young men’s foolishness.

  Like all the river people, however, Imaro’s friends were far from foolish in the ways of the woodland. They taught Imaro which of the abundant fruits of the forest were edible, and pointed out the ones that were so dangerous that a single bite of them was fatal. They showed him a leaf that, if crushed and rubbed onto the skin, kept the annoying hordes of insects away. He learned that poisonous snakes were, perhaps, the deadliest predators of all, including the leopard.

  He learned the ways of Mjino the crocodile, and Kiboko the hippopotamus, which to Imaro looked like an overweight rhinoceros that had shed its horns. Gradually, he came to realize that the wildlife in the forest and river was as abundant as it had been on the Tamburure. But it was different in ways he never could have imagined.

  He saw antelope of various shapes and sizes, none of which resembled the ones that roamed in huge herds across the savanna. Tembo did, indeed, dwell here, but the elephants of the forest were not as large as those of the Tamburure. There was also a smaller version of the fierce buffalo.

  Imaro’s companions were well-acquainted with the large, tail-less, monkey-like creature he had seen when he first entered the forest. They called it Mponga, the chimpanzee. Once, Imaro saw a beast that resembled Mponga, but was so large it made even him look puny by comparison. Ngagi was the name the Mtumwe gave to this man-like giant – the gorilla. They spoke its name in fearful tones.

  In the meantime, Imaro absorbed as much of the Mtumwe language as he could, for he had no reason to believe he would ever again utter a word in Ilyassai. Before long, he was able to make himself understood in the new tongue, which was more melodious than the harsh sounds of his native language. Thankfully, the fishermen no longer had to speak slowly to ensure that Imaro understood them.

  The day came when Busa’s wounds were healed to the point where he could walk with only a slight limp. A set of jagged, tooth-shaped scars now decorated his leg, accompanying the patterns of skin-marks that festooned the rest of his body. Busa and Msuli had once remarked on the smoothness of Imaro’s skin, and asked him if all his people were scar-free. Imaro said they were. The others did not ask him many other questions about the Ilyassai, for they soon learned that Imaro was reluctant to speak of his origins.

  A fresh catch of fish lay at the bottom of the boat, but it was not as large as the original haul, which the three men had long since consumed. Imaro had stared in amazement when the fishermen first demonstrated how their dugout floated, and could be propelled by poles and paddles along the river. Soon enough, he
learned how to keep himself upright in the boat, and to paddle without splashing loud enough to frighten the fish.

  Now, Msuli and Busa were gathering their nets and pangas – their name for the single-edged blades they carried – and were making room for Imaro in the dugout. But Imaro did not enter the boat. The Mtumwe fishermen gave him a puzzled look as he remained on the riverbank.

  “Are you not coming with us, Imaro?” Msuli asked.

  “I am not sure,” Imaro replied.

  “But Imaro,” Busa said, “We have spoken of this before. You saved me from the jaws of Mjino. I owe you my life, as does Msuli, for Mjino might have killed him, too. What is mine, I must share with you. My family is your family; my people are your people. A place of honor awaits you among the Mtumwe.”

  Busa’s face bore a stricken expression as he spoke, for he could not fathom Imaro’s reluctance to join them. Still, Imaro hesitated. Friendship was still new to him; he did not know if he could adjust to the embrace of an entire people. And there was also the matter of Chitendu, and the sorcerers of Naama. Would he be bringing danger to the Mtumwe if he lived among them?

  “Imaro,” Msuli said softly. “A man should not be alone.”

  Imaro was not certain he agreed with the Mtumwe’s sentiment. Nevertheless, he decided to join the fishermen in their boat.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Watercraft of all sizes crowded the Damba Bolong as Msuli and Busa brought Imaro to the Mtumwe kijiji, which was what the people of the river called the towns and villages that dotted its banks. The splashings of paddles and poles were accompanied by the rhythmic beat of unseen drums. Both sounds were overshadowed by the joyous songs that marked the return of the two fishermen, who were long since thought to be lost to the jaws of Mjino or Kiboko.

  When the dugout was first sighted as it passed outlying kijijis, word of its appearance – and of the outlander who accompanied the fishermen – passed down-river quickly, as though borne by the wind. No boats emerged from the kijijis they passed, however. Although the people of the river tribes had traded, fought, and mated among each other for thousands of rains, and the news of the missing Mtumwe fishermen had travelled the length of the Damba Bolong, it was the privilege of their home kijiji to celebrate their return.

  Now, the Mtumwe sang in their boats and from the shore. Imaro marveled at the people’s ability to dance in their boats without falling into the river. Men, women, and children alike crowded into the watercraft, shouting and singing their greetings to Busa and Msuli. Yet even in their joy at the sight of two men returning as though resurrected, they stared in wonder at the stranger, Imaro. And he, in turn, gazed in open curiosity at them.

  The Mtumwe men were garbed and scarified in a manner similar to that of Busa and Msuli, though some also wore more elaborate ornaments, as well as feathered headgear. Mtumwe children wore almost nothing, and their skin was unmarked. It was not the men or children, though, but the women of the river people who caught and held Imaro’s attention, as nothing else had done since his departure from the Ilyassai.

  They were clad in tight-fitting skirts that covered them from waist to ankle. The bark-cloth from which the garments had been made was dyed in shades of scarlet, orange, yellow and other colors that looked as though they had captured the brightness of Jua the sun. Above the waist, the women wore nothing other than strands of multi-colored beads that looked like tiny, hardened nubs of flowers.

  Like the men, the Mtumwe women bore scar-patterns on their skin. More than anything else about them, though, Imaro was fascinated by their hair, and the way they wore it. Among the Tamburure tribes, the heads of girls were shaved as part of their initiation into womanhood, and remained that way thereafter – a custom so ancient its origins had long been forgotten. The only adult woman Imaro had ever seen with hair on her head was his mother, Katisa – and he always thrust his memories of Katisa aside whenever they arose.

  None of the Mtumwe women shaved their heads. And the hair on no two of their heads was alike. Some wore their hair in rows of braids, like the men. Some wore long, thin, twisted plaits that resembled vines tangled in trees. Others grew their hair in spikes and spirals.

  Imaro could only shake his head in disbelief at what he saw, even as the Mtumwe whispered comments to each other about the huge-statured stranger, with strangely unmarked skin.

  Before long, the welcoming flotilla reached a wide stretch of riverbank. Dozens of dugouts were already beached at the spot, but there was room for many more. Imaro’s friends were the first to beach their boats, and he climbed out to help the others push the fish-laden vessel ashore. Soon, all the boats were beached, and Imaro stood at the center of a swirl of people, the tallest of whom were a head shorter than him. Amid the cacophony of singing and drumming, Imaro detected a nuance he had never heard before – a tone of welcome.

  Beyond the crowd and the shoreline, Imaro saw the dwellings of the Mtumwe. Instead of leather, the Mtumwe used reeds, poles and thatch to construct their dwellings, which blended with the forest that surrounded them. The conical roofs of the dwellings reminded Imaro of anthills he had seen in the Tamburure.

  No boma or barrier of any other kind protected the kijiji. On the borders of the dwellings, Imaro saw gardens filled with a variety of unfamiliar plants. One thing he did not see was cattle. He missed the sight – and the smell – of the ngombes of his clan.

  On the whole, the village gave an impression of permanence that was foreign to the nomadic mentality of the Ilyassai. But Imaro had no time to reflect on that feeling, for a small knot of people were pushing to the forefront of the crowd: two pairs of older Mtumwe men and women, a group of others who were about the same age as Msuli and Busa, and several small children. They were the parents and family of the men Imaro had rescued. They engulfed the two fishermen, embracing them and praising all the ancestors that Busa and Msuli had returned safely to the kijiji after such a long, and ominous, absence.

  In snatches of conversation between embraces, the fishermen told their families the tale of how Imaro had killed the crocodile that was about to drag Busa into the river. The curiosity in the glances they gave to the Ilyassai quickly turned into a mixture of awe and gratitude.

  One of the older men bent down and closely inspected the marks of the wounds on Busa’s leg. When the man straightened and turned to Imaro, a hush gradually descended upon the crowd, and the drumming abated.

  The man looked long and searchingly at Imaro, as though he was looking for a message in the warrior’s eyes. Then he spoke.

  “I am Najimu, father of Busa, and the mku – the chieftain – of the Mtumwe kijiji,” he said. “You, Imaro, have given me the life of my son. You, Imaro, are welcome to remain among us as long as you wish, and what is ours is yours.”

  He bowed his head to Imaro, as did all the others in the families of Busa and Msuli.

  Imaro did not understand all of Najimu’s words, but he caught most of their meaning. Again, he wondered at the differences between the river people and those of the Tamburure. Hostility, not hospitality, was the basis of relations among the tribes of the savanna, and sometimes even among the clans and families of the same tribe. Death would have greeted Imaro if he were to venture into the territory of the Turkhana or the Zamburu, and he would never have even considered saving the life of a member of a rival tribe.

  Yet here, in this unfamiliar land enclosed by a boma of trees, strangers were offering him a welcome he had not received from his own people until it was too late to matter.

  To Najimu, Imaro said two words that had never once issued from his mouth while he lived among the Kitoko clan:

  “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Night fell, and the drumming in the Mtumwe kijiji continued. Imaro wondered if it would ever cease. He had never seen so many different types of drum. Among the Ilyassai, each clan had only a single drum that was brought out only for ritual occasions, such as the return from olmaiyo. But the Mtumwe drums were as varied as the pe
ople themselves: some large, some small; some with a beat as deep as a lion’s roar; others that sounded like the chattering of monkeys.

  The Mtumwe were holding an impromptu festival to celebrate the safe return of Busa and Msuli, as well as the arrival of the stranger who had saved their lives. The people of the kijiji feasted heartily, and quaffed banana-beer by the gourdful. Imaro had nearly choked the first time he tasted the concoction, which was called ndizi-pombe, but he soon learned to enjoy its taste, if not its effects.

  Now, the drummers’ beat was changing, and the people began to dance. In concert, the drums of the Mtumwe produced rhythms and beats that worked their way into the blood of the listener, and embedded the urge to get up and join the dancing.

  But Imaro did not know dancing such as this. Men and women danced together, a thing that never happened among the Ilyassai. And the children danced among the adults, never missing a beat of the complicated cadence of the drummers’ sound. The light of the moon and the kijiji’s night-fires glistened on the dancers’ sweat-slicked bodies as they shuffled their feet and swayed their hips.

  Imaro took another swallow of ndizi-pombe. He was sitting on the woven-grass mat of Busa’s family, in a place of honor at the side of the mku, Najimu. The mat of Msuli’s family was nearby.

  During the few occasions on which the drumming receded, Imaro told his hosts tales of the broad, flat savanna that stretched beyond the perimeter of the Kajua. The Mtumwe listened in wide-eyed wonderment, for they could no more imagine a treeless land without rivers than could Imaro have visualized a land of nothing but trees before his departure from the Tamburure.

  “Do your people dance, Imaro?” Najimu asked.

  “Sometimes,” the warrior replied.