Muezzinland by Stephen Palmer Page B

enemy's psyche: a nuclear threat, hanging over the man like a suffocating cloud. A mushroom cloud.
    Already the response came. Msavitar's enemy transformed himself into a great bearded negro, black cloak spread out as if in a great wind, his tree trunk limbs oiled, his teeth flashing. Nshalla gasped and averted her gaze, for this was the image of Buadze, god of the wind, come to claim his prize.
    But Msavitar did not quail, leaving Nshalla to ponder the fact that both he and his enemy were intimates of the Gan religion of Accra. Immediately she thought of her mother.
    Msavitar gave a great shout and changed himself into Sakumo, the god of war, clad in bronze, hair gummed, arms scarred, costume tinkling with a weight of gold.
    But his enemy thought little of this, crouching down with his head in his hands, as if preparing a great assault. Msavitar, still wearing the image of Sakumo, seemed uncertain and he stepped backwards, his trembling hands seeking the rail of the riverboat. Nshalla felt her heart sink. Much as he annoyed her, she wanted him to win against the vicious outsider.
    Now Msavitar's enemy stood upright. With a sudden flurry of colour there stood before them a negro woman, buttocks fat, face round, with braided hair, wearing across her shoulder a costume of red and yellow silks. Msavitar stood transfixed, muttering something. Mother. This was his mother. Nshalla cringed, understanding that this could be the mortal blow. Being an illusionist demanded insecurity, selfishness, immaturity, an inability to create identity from relationships with others. If Msavitar hated his mother, this could be the end.
    But it seemed it was not. He stood firm. Quick as thought he transformed himself into a negro man, a simple naked villager, tall and dusty, and Nshalla immediately knew this was his enemy's father. So the pair knew one another very well. But still the enemy did not fall back.
    A stalemate seemed to have arrived. Captain Nfor whispered, "They have used cultural and personal attacks. My guess is that they will now revert to cultural swipes."
    He was wrong. Msavitar's enemy again crouched, bowed his head, and then—
    There were two Msavitar's. The new one was youthful, somewhat bland, perhaps weak, like a lost antelope, a youth who stood up and stared at Msavitar.
    Msavitar collapsed to his knees, unable to take his eyes off the aether apparition. It was himself. Nshalla choked back a shriek of dismay, her hand at her mouth, clutching Captain Nfor's arm. The enemy was striking his deepest blow, confronting Msavitar with the truth of his earlier life, a truth Msavitar must have buried under layers of psychological defence, a truth that, once buried, mutated into a lie and so allowed him to become an illusionist. Msavitar was shaking, crouching, now crawling to the edge of the boat, trying to climb the rail to jump into the water.
    And then an owl stood where he had stood.
    The enemy gave a piercing shriek. He had become a normal man. He stood legs akimbo, arms outstretched, face twisted into a grimace of horror, breathing in wailing gasps. With a flourish, like a worm escaping a finch, his penis dropped off and bounced across the stern of the boat, to lie still, shrivel, and then vanish. Msavitar's enemy gave one final wail, clutched the flap of skin where his penis had been, then leaped into the river.
    There was silence on the riverboat.
    Captain Nfor swept his gaze from owl to river and back. "What happened, what happened?"
    The owl became a panting, sweating Msavitar.
    Nshalla, trying to control the pleasure she felt at getting one over the captain, answered, "I am from Ghana. So was that man, and so is Msavitar. In Ghana, witches change into screech owls and fly about searching for men. Then they peck off the essence of their manhood so that it becomes useless. Had you been born in Ghana you would have known that. Msavitar attacked the crux of his enemy's identity, his manhood. Deprived of that he was nothing, so