Hero looked at Keeper. Could this possibly work? It would be dangerous, for a reason he did not care to voice. “What do you think?”
Keeper paused, evidently appreciating that danger, then nodded. “It’s far-fetched, but at least it’s a chance. We could ask them, if we decided to do that. At worst they would decline.”
Crenelle spoke, her expression grim. “Since we have virtually no chance to save the goats otherwise, I believe we should try it. A small chance is better than none.”
Hero looked again at Keeper, knowing how he would answer. “How do you see it?”
“I agree with Crenelle. At least it’s a chance.”
“Then let’s get moving,” Hero said. “We surely don’t have much time before the Zimba breach the walls. Once they get into the town, all is lost.”
They traveled north, avoiding the main routes, as they had all along. Smaller villages were easier to deal with, being less formal and more open to visitors.
As night approached, they came to a small agricultural village. They halted as the lookout spied them. They could communicate with other Bantu tribesmen, though the dialects differed.
“We are Xhosa, from far to the south,” Hero explained. His knobkerrie, or wooden battle club, was hanging from his belt, obviously out of action. It was important to be nonthreatening. “Myself, my wife, my brother, and my daughter. We seek hospitality for the night, and a consultation with your healer.”
“Healer? Why?”
“My child has an affliction. Maybe a demon possesses her. At times she acts crazy.”
“Our healer can’t handle that,” the scout said. “What do you offer for the night?”
“We can perform our tribe’s traditional song and dance. My wife remains shapely, and my daughter is dawning.”
The scout looked at Crenelle, then at Tourette. He saw what any man would: a pretty woman and a pretty girl. That was viable currency anywhere, especially if they had any significant dancing talent. He nodded. “This way.”
They followed him to the center of the village, where the local headman was waiting. Naturally the villagers had known of the approaching party long since, and probably had already known their mission. Also their entertainment capacity. Villages were in constant touch with each other, and always eager for diversion from the dull routine. The scout had been a formality of introduction.
Hero formally introduced their party. They were given a vacant hut, and a loaf of bread and some dried fruit. There was a cistern where they could wash.
As darkness closed, torches were ignited and mounted around the central circle. The villagers collected to see the performance. Such events, however minor they might be, always thrilled the children.
Hero took the stage. “We are Xhosa,” he said. “Traveling to find help for our daughter, who is beset by a demon. If you see her doing something strange, do not be concerned; the demon afflicts only her, no one else, and usually quits soon. Meanwhile, here is our traditional dance.”
Hero and Keeper sat on the ground. Hero brought out his stamping stick. This was a hollow length of wood that made a characteristic resonant sound when struck against the ground. Keeper had a small wood flute. Craft had made both instruments, and they were of fine quality though they looked ordinary.
Crenelle and Tourette took their places, standing, bare-breasted as were most women, their black skins shining. They wore beaded necklaces, brief skirts, and anklets of linked shells. Crenelle was well developed; Tourette was as yet undeveloped, a girl, but her aesthetic form suggested that soon enough she would be a woman to be reckoned with.
Hero struck the ground with his stamping stick. The sound rang out, commencing the dance. Keeper played his pipe, making a melodic tune. He was good at it, having trained since childhood, using the sounds to pacify animals.
Crenelle moved, swinging her hips grandly in the loose skirt. Tourette echoed her motion in a less pronounced manner, as though her slender body lacked the powers of expression of the older woman. They circled each other, their feet touching the beaten earth in time to the complicated cadence Hero set with his stick. There was an art to the beat of the stick, and now it showed.
Then Keeper played a sudden frill, and woman and girl leaped together as if startled, their necklaces lifting. Hero’s stick thumped loudly as they landed. The village children laughed. But the adult men were watching closely, for Crenelle in musical motion was a sight to behold, and Tourette, even so young, almost matched her in appeal.
Their dance was genuinely appreciated, because the melody was catching, extremely well played, and perfectly coordinated. Many eyes were on Crenelle, of course, but Hero saw that almost as many were on Tourette. The girl was gaining, in appearance and grace, especially when dancing. Especially in the flickering torchlight, that made it easy to imagine that she was better endowed than she was.
They did several tunes, with several dances. Then the villagers joined in, with the support of their own musicians, especially the drummers. They were satisfied; the family had entertained them well enough. Hero was able to put away his stamping stick, his job done.
The village elder approached. “Yet she has a problem?” he inquired. “She looks quite appealing.”
No need to inquire whom the elder meant. “When the fit comes on her, she twitches and makes weird sounds,” Hero said. “It can be disconcerting. We need to get the demon out before she can marry.”
“She could marry now,” the elder said. “She is young, but her potential is manifest.”
“Yes. But she could marry far more advantageously without the liability of the demon.”
The elder nodded. “It does seem worth the effort.” Then he changed the subject. “You know of the Zimba?”
“We are horrified by the Zimba,” Hero said. “We were going to see the exorcist in Malindi, but the Zimba are besieging it.”
“When they are done with Malindi, if they turn this way, we shall have to flee for our lives.”
“What else can you do?” Hero asked sympathetically. He did not speak of the plan to enlist the help of the Segeju, lest there were a spy in the village who would relay the information to the Zimba. Extreme caution was best.
“Nothing, I fear,” the elder said, and moved on.
In due course the party ended, and the family retired to the hut. They had once again found a comfortable rest for the night, as they had been doing throughout their journey.
In the morning they resumed their trek, with the good wishes of the villagers. It helped when they could entertain for their lodging. They had precious stones, garnets, that could be traded for accommodations, but they wanted to make those go as far as possible. Every night they didn’t use one helped. They were hidden in the mouths of each of them, in tight little packets that in an emergency could be swallowed. Then they could be recovered when they cleared the digestive system. They were too valuable to risk being lost through robbery.
They traveled as rapidly as was feasible, knowing that the town of Malindi could fall at any time. On occasion Hero strung his bow and used it to bring down small game, so that they could eat without depending on villages. They were used to camping out, when they found suitable sleeping places. Often it had to be trees, for the ground could be dangerous at night. But trees, though relatively safe, were also relatively uncomfortable.
The Segeju were some distance up the coast. But travel was good, and they made it there in good time, considering. They were long-since hardened to the rigors of urgent marches. Even Tourette, despite her delicate appearance, kept the pace without difficulty.
They came to the southernmost Segeju outpost. The Segeju were savage tribesman from the north, not yet settled in. They remained on an essentially military footing, at least in this area. They were surely being cautious about their eventual encounter with the Zimba.
Alert scouts spotted and tracked the family for some time before challenging it. Hero realized that most people were on legitimate business, hunting or p
assing through, so they were merely watched until they lingered too long.
Three Segeju warriors barred their way. “What is your business here?” their leader demanded.
“We seek a healer,” Hero said. He paused, for he was aware of something happening.
Now the tension set off Tourette, as sometimes happened, and she went into a series of grunts and wild facial expressions, while her limbs twitched uncontrollably. Her mouth opened and closed and her eyes rolled back. It was a siege, harmless, but frightening to those who did not understand. It did look as if a demon were fighting for possession of her body.
One of the guards nodded. “We have seen that before. Our healers can’t cure it.”
“Maybe in this case it would be possible,” Hero said. “We would like to talk to your healer directly.”
The leader shrugged. Tourette was after all a pretty girl, even in the throes of her fit.
The healer was an old woman, with lines of wisdom across her face. “We have seen this before,” she said, confirming the scout’s comment. “I doubt it’s a demon, because exorcism has no effect. We can’t help you.”
“There is something else,” Hero said.
“Oh?” She seemed not especially surprised.
“We needed a pretext to come to you, to talk with your headman.”
Her mouth tightened. “If you waste his time, he’ll rape your girl.”
Tourette shrank back, knowing that this was not an empty threat. She knew she was attractive to men, especially those who liked their women young. But she was ready to risk it. They had discussed it before, to be sure.
“We will not waste his time,” Hero said. This was the danger they had understood without discussion. Peaceful villages were one thing; warrior parties were another.
Before long they were before the local chief. “Your women are appealing,” he remarked, his gaze passing openly across Crenelle and fixing on Tourette. He did like them young. It was a threat.
Hero quickly made the case, including their mission to get the goats. “You know you must encounter the Zimba sometime,” he concluded. “This may be your best chance to defeat them. If you catch them at the right moment.”
The chief squinted at him assessingly. “We are aware of the opportunity. But the Zimba are alert. Their scouts watch all approaches to Malindi, and they know our appearance. The moment one of us appears, they will sound that alarm and focus defensively, nullifying any possible advantage we might seek. Attack at this time is not feasible.”
Hero saw the logic of it. The man was right. There was only one main access from the north, suitable for massed troops, and of course it would be watched. “It seems I did not think it through,” he said heavily. “I thought we had a useful idea.” Would Tourette pay for his mistake?
“However,” the chief said.
So the man was playing a more complicated game. That explained why he had been willing to see them, despite guessing their mission.
Hero met his gaze. “There is a way?”
“You are not Segeju. The Zimba will not recognize Xhosa travelers as a threat. They will merely capture you, rape your women, and eat all four of you. Routine, for them.”
Hero caught on. “You want us to distract them.”
“So that we can secure their checkpoint and move our troops through efficiently before they know. Then much becomes possible.” He eyed Hero. “You are a warrior. A good one. I know the signs. Your brother is not, but I suspect he can use a spear when he has to. And your women will have knives and courage. The four of you could surprise the Zimba warriors, who will have eyes mainly on the women. If you care to. What is your price?”
“The goats,” Hero said immediately. “And safe passage out of the town.”
“Agreed.”
They were given nice food and lodging for the night. But Hero was cynical. “They saw us coming.”
“Well, we weren’t trying to hide from them,” Tourette said.
“I mean that they anticipated our mission, and were prepared to use us, just as we want to use them. They needed nonlocal travelers to work their ruse. They are guesting us now so that they have time to organize for the attack.”
Tourette considered. “So all that business about not wasting the chief’s time, and how appealing our women are, was just a ruse, not a real threat?”
“No ruse,” Hero said. “The threat is real. These people are as cynical and deadly as are the Zimba, apart from the cannibalism. We must perform as we have agreed, or pay the price.”
“But the chief seemed so reasonable!”
“He is dealing from power. He knew that I, as a warrior, would understand. It is a fair deal.”
She was outraged. “Fair? To risk rape of Mother and me, and who knows what else?”
“And death for Keeper and me.”
She took stock. “Mother, you knew? Before we came here?”
“We knew,” Crenelle agreed. “It is the only way to get those goats.”
“Keeper?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
She tried to retain her composure, but the tension got to her and she went into a fit of grimaces and grunts. They waited it out, then Crenelle put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. That was all.
Hero sighed inaudibly. An aspect of Tourette’s innocence had been abated. Such insights were necessary but seldom pleasant.
“You could have told me,” Tourette said accusingly to Keeper.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, pained.
That, too, was disturbing. The girl had a right to feel betrayed, but it was Keeper she chided, rather than her parents. As though she felt a closer connection to her uncle. And he had reacted as if the rebuke was personally deserved, when all he had done was go along with the decision of the family.
But such private interactions and their implications might be meaningless tomorrow. There truly was danger in their mission, as all of them appreciated. The Zimba were not patsies. If they, too, saw the family coming. . .
In the morning they set out south. It was a two-day walk to Malindi. The main access had a checkpoint manned by four warriors, day and night. The Segeju had timed their approach for the middle of a shift, so that help would not be coming soon. All they had to do was take out the four, or distract them long enough for the Segeju to do so. What kind of distraction would be effective? Screaming women being raped.
“Tourette,” Hero said somberly as they camped beside the trail the night before the encounter.
“Yes, I have my knife,” she replied, showing the iron blade where it was fastened inside her skirt. It was long enough to do the job.
“But can you use it effectively?”
“I know how.”
That was not a sufficient answer. “You must not hesitate. Straight in the belly. Then as he folds over, across the neck. If you hesitate, he will disarm you. Then you will be finished.”
“I know. I will not hesitate.”
“Because you will have to do it alone. That is our strategy.”
“Yes.”
“Scream as he pursues you, so he believes you are helpless.”
“I will, Father.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, Tourette.”
“She will do it,” Crenelle murmured as he clasped her in the darkness. “So will I.”
“You must scream too. They must not suspect.”
“I will.”
They spoke no more of the matter. They were prepared.
Next day they approached the checkpoint. There was no sign of the Segeju, but Hero knew their scouts were watching. The moment the Zimba guards were taken out, the Segeju would march in force, silently. Surprise was everything.
The guards spied them, and came out to surround them. They were armed with battle spears and long knives. “Who are you?” the leader demanded menacingly, glancing at Hero’s knobkerrie and hunting spear with open contempt.
“I am Hero, a Xhosa traveler, with my brother, wife, and da
ughter. We have business in Malindi.”
“You did have business there,” the leader said, his gaze moving on to the woman and the girl. “Now you have business with us.”
“Scatter!” Hero cried as the Zimba closed in, their weapons raised.
The four of them ran in four directions, as rehearsed. The Zimba, liking the sport, separated into four to pursue them. The leader went after Hero.
Hero circled a tree, spun about, drew his knobkerrie, and suddenly closed in on the Zimba. He swung the knob swiftly against the man’s head. There was a thunk, and the man went down, his spear only half lifted.
Hero didn’t even check on him. He knew the Zimba was dead. The man had seriously underestimated the potential of a warrior with a weapon he knew how to use.
Crenelle and Tourette were screaming, as they were supposed to. Hero oriented on Tourette, as the one more likely to need rescuing. But as he loped into sight of her, he saw her pursuer fall. She had stabbed him in the gut and jumped back. The Zimba was not dead, but he was seriously distracted by the wound.
“Good girl!” Hero said, swinging his knobkerrie down to club the man’s head. Now he was dead.
Tourette fell into Hero’s arms, sobbing. She had done what she knew she had to do, and now was reacting. He held her, comforting her, while looking around. Two down.
“Mother! Keeper!” Tourette exclaimed. “Are they—?”
“We’ll see.” Crenelle’s screaming had stopped; that was probably a good sign, because had the warrior caught and disarmed her, he would be raping her, and she would still be screaming. But once she took him out, screaming would be pointless.
They found Crenelle standing over her antagonist, blood on her knife. “The fool,” she said disparagingly. “He tried to grab me bare-handed.”
“Mother—there’s blood on your skirt!”
“I couldn’t step back in time.” Crenelle wiped her soiled knife on the back of the fallen warrior, and sheathed it again under her skirt. “I’ll have some washing to do.”
Keeper appeared. There was no blood on him. He had his own knobker rie. One advantage of that weapon was that it spattered less blood.