Lord of Darkness by Robert Silverberg
One thing I greatly feared, as the dying proceeded, was that there would be some in the Jaqqa camp that would lay the plague to my door, saying, “He is a stranger, he is not one of us, he is white-faced, he has brought a pestilence upon us.” And that they would insist on the placating of their mokissos by my death. If such an outcry went up, would Calandola yield me up in sacrifice? I lived in daily caution of this.
So I did tremble when a day came on which Calandola summoned me to his inner sanctuary, sending me the word by Kasanje and Kilombo. And I thought, Ah, they have resolved at last that I am the cause, and I am to be slain.
I found the Imbe-Jaqqa sprawled on his great throne, toying with bangles of bone, and only some four or five of his wives about him. His face was somber but yet calm, and out of that dark glistening mask his terrible eyes did shine like beacon-fires as he looked down upon me and said, “I must have a service from you.”
“Ask it, O Imbe-Jaqqa.”
“I would have you end this sickness that is among us.”
“Ah, I am no surgeon, Lord Calandola.”
“You are more surgeon than you think,” replied the man-eater king. “And it is you must cut the heart from this plague lest it devour us all. For I have given it its free run, and let it to blaze like a healthy fire, but now a finish must swiftly be brought to it.”
“And I am to be the finisher?”
“Only you can do what is required, my Andubatil, my Kimana Kyeer.”
He did explain to me that in his prayers and meditation he had identified the causing of the disease. Which was, that certain members of the tribe who lay ill but neither regained their health nor died were the centers of the infection. From their wicker-house shelters they did pump the taint of their souls into the tribe, said he, and corrupted new victims every day. Therefore must these plague-bearers be eradicated. And that task he did assign to me, because the ngangas had decreed that the slayer must be one whose heart is Jaqqa but whose body is not, and that man could only be me.
“How am I to know which those persons are?” I asked.
“You will be shown,” said he.
He heaved his vast body from his throne, and descended, and walked out into the rainy deluge. I followed him, and a throng of witches and courtiers behind me. Kinguri too came to him, and a great witch of the tribe with his hair painted scarlet red, who carried upon a heavy palm-frond a long shining sword polished most brilliantly.
“This is your instrument of surgery,” Calandola declared.
Then did we march across the whole width of the encampment to the place of the sick-houses; and the hangers-on fell back, leaving only Calandola and Kinguri and me. Those two and I did enter a certain sick-house where the chieftain Ti-Bangala lay suffering. I had not come to know this man well, who was a great hunter and wielder of the bow, but I respected him greatly. Though he was of formidable stature and majesty, now he was huddled and shivering, and half drowning in his own pouring sweat. Upon our entry he looked up and said in a small tired voice that was scarce his own, “Imbe-Jaqqa? Lord Kinguri? Ah, I suffer, I suffer: when does this end?”
“It ends now, Ti-Bangala,” said the Imbe-Jaqqa.
Then the two brothers moved to the side, revealing me standing there like the angel of death, with the great bright weapon in my hand. Ti-Bangala did not show fear of my sword, only a kind of mild surprise, and he feebly smiled to me, saying, “Ah, Andubatil, will we ever hunt together again?”
“Nay, I fear not,” said I.
“Are you the death-mokisso, then?”
“That is what I am, Ti-Bangala.”
And at a signal from Calandola I thrust him through, and he made a soft outrush of air and gave up his ghost.
From there we went to the sick-house of the Jaqqa Paivaga, who looked to me near death unaided, but I despatched him with the blade all the same; and from that to the chamber of Nzinga-bandi, a master of music, who took my thrust in silence; and then onward to another, and one more, and some eleven beyond that. All of whom did I send from the world without giving a second thought to it. Most were so ill, with a glassy look to their eyes and the gleam of shining sweat to their skins, that they scarce perceived what was upon them until my sword descended. But one, Mbanda-kanini, that was a man near as massive and huge as Calandola, looked upon the weapon and drew himself up to his knees, and cried out, “Smite me not, Andubatil! What is this, that you would do me to death?” And with his eyes he did both implore me to let him live, and glare his defiance at me. But I ran him through all the same, and it was no easy task, for there was such a wall of muscle about his belly that it was like pushing the blade through a band of stone. Yet did I do it well, with a sharp fatal twist to my arm at the end, and he fell back and expired with a great rush of dark discolored blood from the wound.
I think I would have gone on serenely all day, striking down these certain Jaqqas that were fancied to be the causes of the plague: for my arm grew hot and supple from this use, and I made an art of seeking the vital places, so that I needed not to thrust a second time with any of them. I did not question the need for this work. It was simply my office, this surgery, this eradication. I did it well. I was in the service of the Imbe-Jaqqa.
At last Calandola said, “It is enough. We have slain them all.”
Then he and Kinguri and I did go down to the river and strip forth our clothes, there in the rain, and march into the muddy swollen coccodrillo-infested stream and bathe ourselves, as if to sweep away any pestilence that might have attached itself to us upon these deadly errands. After which, we repaired to the lodgings of the Imbe-Jaqqa, where his servants did restore our body-paints, that we had washed away; and I yielded up the sword, which was a holy one, to its witch-keeper.
That night the rain came to its termination. By the morning sun, when steaming banks of yellow fog did rise from the baking earth, a grand ceremony of burial was begun. And from that day the pestilence began to leave us, and life returned to its usual state among the Jaqqa nation.
SEVEN
WHEN THE dead were buried and the sick were recovered and the elephanto-tails dedicated to the fallen lords had been placed into their shrines, we marched westward, along the south side of the River Kwanza. This brought us right against the mountains of Kambambe, which the Portugals call the Serras da Prata, or Mountains of Silver. Now were we not far east of Masanganu, so I was coming back at last to the region that was frequented by Portugals. And I prayed me that I would not encounter any. For they were become odious to me, those men of jerkins and doublets and breeches and cuffs, of stone houses and noisy taverns, of garlic and saffron and sugar. They had the reek of perfidious civilization about them: I wanted no whiff of it. The forest life was cleansing me of all that grime and stench of Christendom.
I had not been to Kambambe before, though I had been within some leagues of it, years earlier. Here there was a great fall of water on the river, that falls right down a vast distance, and makes a mighty sound that is heard thirty miles, a noise that swallows all other noises like a great greedy mouth. We visited this plunge, Kinguri and I. The place is sacred to the Jaqqas, I think because the torrent of falling water dropping vehemently into that great chasm does put into their minds some image of their mother the earth. When we departed from it, its deafening roar remained in my head for some hours, and I felt as though swathed in thick wool over my face and ears.
Kinguri asked me why Portugals came to this place so often, wondering if it might be holy also to them. “Nay,” I said, “not holy in any way you would understand, for the god they would worship there is called Mammon, and you know him not. At Kambambe they do seek a white metal that is said to be found there.”
“There are no white metals,” said Kinguri.
“There is one, that we call silver, very precious to the Portugals and other Christians. And it lives in the ground here.”
He shrugged, and said again that there were no white metals, and certainly none at Kambambe. But that led us int
This talk of the province of Matamba did touch me at the heart, for it put me in mind of a cherished person that had been far from my mind and soul.
“I knew a woman of Matamba when I lived among the Portugals,” I said. “She never spoke of such a metal. But if ever I see her again, I will ask her.”
“Where is this woman?” asked Kinguri.
“In São Paulo de Loanda, if she still lives.”
“Then I think you will see her soon, Andubatil.”
“What?”
He smiled, and stretched himself back, preening himself on his lordliness among these folk. “I have spoken this day with the Imbe-Jaqqa, and he has disclosed his plan to me. We are shortly to aim our war against the Portugals.”
This news did make my heart pound fiercely in my breast, and my skin to turn chill.
I said, “What, will you attack São Paulo de Loanda, when you did hesitate to invade the city of Dongo?”
“It is not the same. Dongo is sealed tight, and is not simple of approach; and King Ngola knows our ways, and how to defend himself from them. We will deal with Dongo, aye, but at some farther time. The Portugals will not be so difficult. Imbe Calandola has come to believe we must destroy them now, before they have done more grievous harm to our mother, and before they are so numerous that we will be hard put to defeat them. They are the true enemy: and so we have believed for these ten years past. And their time now draws nigh.”
These words gave me some deep pause. Yea, and I detested the Portugals for what they were and all they had done to me; and there had been moments of late when I wished their utter destruction as fervently as Calandola himself, a sweeping clean of all of them from the African land. But yet, would I let myself truly be part of this war against São Paulo de Loanda, or no? Was I become that much a Jaqqa? To partake of butchering and eating those folk, and putting their city to the torch?
The Christian within me cried, “Nay, it is monstrous, you may not do it!” But the Englishman in me did shout most lustily, “Aye, take your full revenge upon the oily bastardos, Andy-boy!” And then also the Jaqqa that was in me, coursing dark and hot in my veins, whispered hard and tempting, “Strike, strike deep, for the mother must be cleansed of such vermin!”
Kinguri said, “You look sore troubled, Andubatil.”
“A passing griping of the gut,” said I, with a shrug. “Those small yellow fruits we plucked yesterday were not ripe, I think.”
“Ah. I wish you a proper heaving of the belly, then, brother.” He laughed. “There is a leaf I could give you, that would make you puke out all your torment in an hour.”
“Would that there be such a thing,” said I.
“Let me show you, good my brother!”
But I waved his help aside, and said, “It will pass, Kinguri. The weight will lift. I feel it already clearing.”
Which was untrue. But I was able then to put the matter somewhat from my mind, for it emerged that Calandola’s scheme of war was no more ripe than the imagined fruits upon which I had blamed my malaise. The Imbe-Jaqqa, said Kinguri, did not propose to attack the Portugals until he first had dealt with the army of Kafuche Kambara. That great blackamoor chieftain, whose fury I myself knew well, was a mighty rival to Calandola, being just as fierce, and just as shrewd in battle, though no man-eater. The Imbe-Jaqqa intended now to slay Kafuche Kambara and then to press his strong army into his own, and with joined forces to march upon São Paulo de Loanda for the destruction of the Portugals.
So entered we into the province of Kisama, which I remembered well but not fondly from long ago, and in that drab wasteland we presented ourselves to one of its greatest lords, which was called Langere. This black prince wanted no war with Calandola, but came out from his town most hastily and paid homage to the Imbe-Jaqqa, bowing low and making offerings of meat and drink. Kinguri stood to one side of Calandola and I to the other, holding my musket as a kind of staff of office, and Langere did grovel and pray for the love of Calandola, until the Imbe-Jaqqa did say, a little disgusted, “Rise, Langere, we would not eat you.”
The chieftain rose trembling, and asked what was the Imbe-Jaqqa’s bidding, and Calandola said that he wanted Langere’s warriors, to employ in a war he proposed to make against Kafuche Kambara. At this Langere looked pale. If one can speak of a blackamoor going pale, then pale is what he looked, or more yellowish, from dismay. For Kafuche Kambara was not only a mighty warrior, he was also the high prince of the province, and Langere’s own master. Caught between one doom and the other, Langere chose the more remote one: the Jaqqas were already at his town, and would punish him cruelly if he did not yield to their will. So then Langere obeyed, and gave his army over to the Imbe-Jaqqa, and we all marched onward to the city of Kafuche Kambara.
Before we were there, Imbe Calandola drew me aside, and smiled most fondly upon me, and said, “This will be the largest battle you have fought since you came to us.”
“Aye. That I know, for I have seen the troops of Kafuche Kambara at work, and they show no quarter.”
“We must destroy their prince, but not the warriors, for them shall we need in our campaign against the Portugals. Take you your musket, Andubatil, and aim it for the high ones of the city, and if it goes well for us they will surrender when their chiefs are all fallen.”
“I will aim my sharpest,” said I.
“You are a great treasure to me,” Calandola said. He was fully greased with the grease of human fat, and his body gleamed like some terrible idol, and he was a giant even sitting down, so that I felt the waves of power emanating from him, beating steady upon my soul like the heavy surf. And he said, “You are a true Jaqqa, in all but your skin, and we can do nothing about that. But before this battle we must admit you to our deepest mysteries, so that you will fight with the highest loyalty.”
“My loyalty could not be higher.”
“Ah, that I know. For are you not blood-brother to the wise Kinguri? But still—still, Andubatil—there is one rite, there is a further closeness—”
I knew not what he meant.
He did frighten me somewhat by this talk, for he was speaking most quietly, and by this time I was aware that when Imbe Calandola roared and stamped his feet and pounded his fists together, it was mostly for show, to cow and humble the foolish; but when he spoke quietly, it was because he had some dark and devious plan, most subtle and perilous. And his talking of my being blood-brother to Kinguri—why, I knew that was a sore thing with him, and did fester within the murky fevered caverns of his devilish soul, in that it was a source of jealousy and private pain to him. He never spoke outwardly of it, and now he had, and so very calmly at that.
What, then, was his scheme? To make me his blood-brother as well, and equal Kinguri in making a bond with me? Well, and if he did, I could give him that, for what would it cost me? A bit of pain, but there was room on my skin for one more scar, even now. Yet that was not his plan. What the Imbe-Jaqqa had in mind by way of bond was something far more intimate, a full initiation into the core and heart of the Jaqqa nation.
To me he said, “These rites are such as no Christian has ever beheld. We guard them even from slaves of other tribes. But I have spoken with my witches, and they are in agreement that you are fit to share our secrets.”
Imbe Calandola had his head close to mine and his eyes staring into my eyes, that had ever overwhelmed me, and his voice was low and deep and persuasive, and he said, “Come, then, will you be one of us, Andubatil?”
“Aye,” I said, “that I will, and gladly.”
And so I did, and monstrous things did I undertake, and I think you will condemn me for them. Nevertheless will I tell all. I say to you only that you were not there, and I was; that you had not traveled the long journey I had traveled; that yo
I will tell all.
Once it was openly agreed that I would have the rite, the news was published generally in the Jaqqa camp, and from that instant on I was regarded in a special way, as one who had taken on a high radiance. Certain slaves that the Jaqqas did keep at once commenced the building of a ceremonial house apart from the main camp, by the riverbank, hidden from view by a tight-woven wall of palm-fibers. I watched them building it, until I saw that they were looking upon me with fear, and could not work well. In my own place, Kulachinga took a sleeping-mat apart from me, and said she could not embrace me until I was initiate: which I regretted, but I abided by the rule. In fact no one touched my skin in all those days, as if I would burn them with some god-like fire from within: those who passed me by took pains to walk far around me, and I was not let play in Jaqqa games or dances.
On the day appointed for the rite, I was summoned and taken to the house of ceremony by Imbe Calandola himself, and led within, and the wall of palm-fibers was woven closed behind me.
Some dozen Jaqqas were already in the house, sitting crosslegged awaiting me. The Jaqqa Ntotela was among them, and Zimbo, and Kasanje, and Bangala, and also the witch Kakula-banga; the others I did not know except distantly. Kinguri was not there: I had not expected him to be.
Calandola took his place at the head of the solemn group. A music began, from outside the house: a low thick beat of drums, and then a winding high sour outcry of the ivory fife, a sound that reminded me of the weaving of the serpent from side to side as it readies itself to strike.