Babakar. He recalled Amma's words of only a night before… "You must not touch my turban…"
"Amma," he said with a sob, wondering if even the name was a lie. She had not mentioned it before he had told her of his first Amma…
For the first time that night, Amma's eyes met his. Her face, even beneath the spiralled horns, still absorbed him in its loveliness.
"One of the Sussu you killed was the son of a sabane; a powerful sorcerer, master of the Black Talk," she told him. "He used his skills to discover the slayer of his son. Then he used the Black Talk to bind me to his will; to force me to use my people to carry out his vengeance. I resisted, but his power was too strong. The effort it took to bind me killed the sabane, but the power of his Black Talk remains, and I am compelled to carry out his command: to call my people like locusts to destroy your crops. The sabane was mad with grief. He wanted all of your town to suffer for your deed…"
"Lies! Lies!" screeched Kuya Adowa. "Can't you see this is a creature of evil, a thing that deserves death? Her very appearance is a lie!"
Amma turned her gaze to Kuya, and the old woman gasped and shrank back a step. Amma's eyes returned to the stricken farmer's.
"A kambu can love, Babakar," she said softly. Then, in a sudden move, she bolted through the men surrounding her. One managed to grasp her asokaba, but Amma tore free and raced on, a naked shadow in the moonlight.
"Stop her!" screamed the tynbibi. One of the farmers hurled his staff. Whirling end-over-end, it struck Amma on the back of her head. She fell heavily; before she could gain her feet again, they were upon her, striking hard with their staves. They hit her with the frenzy of man killing a poisonous snake.
Crazed with sorrow and rage, Babakar broke free from Atuye and Mwiya and rushed toward Amma's attackers. An unearthly shriek rose just as he reached them. With a ferocity he had not felt since the last days of the war, he seized two of the men and hurled them violently to the ground.
Then he stopped, looked down, and swayed like a man drunk on palm-wine. For the broken, bleeding body sprawled before him was not that of a woman. It was a dead gazelle that lay there; its eyes staring emptily upward; as emptily as Babakar's stared down. He dropped to his knees and reached out to touch the head of the fallen creature.
"That sound," Falil iri Nyadi said nervously. "It was just like the one she made when she summoned the gazelles."
"Listen!" said Atuye. "Can you hear it? A rumbling sound,
coming from the west…"
Though they did not answer him, the others had heard it. The sound grew louder. It was like the music of some insistent drum, growing in intensity yet retaining an underlying delicacy of tone.
"Look!" cried Falil, pointing to the dark western horizon. The others followed his gaze, and beheld a shadowy mass detaching itself from the black gloom. Individual shapes became discernible; graceful forms advancing rapidly in breathtaking bounds. Spiralled horns flashed and glittered in the moonlight.
"Gazelles," whispered Kuya Adowa. Her hands clutched convulsively at her tira; strange words of sorcerous import spilled from her lips.
"What's wrong with you, old woman?" snarled Atuye. "What harm can a herd of timid gazelles do?"
"They don't look so timid to me," said Mwiya. "I thought you said there were scores of them, Falil. Looks more like hundreds now."
"She called them," Falil muttered.
"I cannot stop them," cried Kuya Adowa. "Run!"
"From gazelles?" Atuye scoffed.
A four-legged body arrowed toward him, head down, horns pointed outward. The sharp tips of the horns took Atuye full in the chest. With a strangled cry he went down, eyes wide in incredulity even as blood spurted from his mouth.
Terrified, the others turned and ran, dropping staves and torches alike in the panic that clawed at their souls. They were too slow. Living projectiles of hoof and horn hurtled like lightning among them. The
"Amma," he said with a sob, wondering if even the name was a lie. She had not mentioned it before he had told her of his first Amma…
For the first time that night, Amma's eyes met his. Her face, even beneath the spiralled horns, still absorbed him in its loveliness.
"One of the Sussu you killed was the son of a sabane; a powerful sorcerer, master of the Black Talk," she told him. "He used his skills to discover the slayer of his son. Then he used the Black Talk to bind me to his will; to force me to use my people to carry out his vengeance. I resisted, but his power was too strong. The effort it took to bind me killed the sabane, but the power of his Black Talk remains, and I am compelled to carry out his command: to call my people like locusts to destroy your crops. The sabane was mad with grief. He wanted all of your town to suffer for your deed…"
"Lies! Lies!" screeched Kuya Adowa. "Can't you see this is a creature of evil, a thing that deserves death? Her very appearance is a lie!"
Amma turned her gaze to Kuya, and the old woman gasped and shrank back a step. Amma's eyes returned to the stricken farmer's.
"A kambu can love, Babakar," she said softly. Then, in a sudden move, she bolted through the men surrounding her. One managed to grasp her asokaba, but Amma tore free and raced on, a naked shadow in the moonlight.
"Stop her!" screamed the tynbibi. One of the farmers hurled his staff. Whirling end-over-end, it struck Amma on the back of her head. She fell heavily; before she could gain her feet again, they were upon her, striking hard with their staves. They hit her with the frenzy of man killing a poisonous snake.
Crazed with sorrow and rage, Babakar broke free from Atuye and Mwiya and rushed toward Amma's attackers. An unearthly shriek rose just as he reached them. With a ferocity he had not felt since the last days of the war, he seized two of the men and hurled them violently to the ground.
Then he stopped, looked down, and swayed like a man drunk on palm-wine. For the broken, bleeding body sprawled before him was not that of a woman. It was a dead gazelle that lay there; its eyes staring emptily upward; as emptily as Babakar's stared down. He dropped to his knees and reached out to touch the head of the fallen creature.
"That sound," Falil iri Nyadi said nervously. "It was just like the one she made when she summoned the gazelles."
"Listen!" said Atuye. "Can you hear it? A rumbling sound,
coming from the west…"
Though they did not answer him, the others had heard it. The sound grew louder. It was like the music of some insistent drum, growing in intensity yet retaining an underlying delicacy of tone.
"Look!" cried Falil, pointing to the dark western horizon. The others followed his gaze, and beheld a shadowy mass detaching itself from the black gloom. Individual shapes became discernible; graceful forms advancing rapidly in breathtaking bounds. Spiralled horns flashed and glittered in the moonlight.
"Gazelles," whispered Kuya Adowa. Her hands clutched convulsively at her tira; strange words of sorcerous import spilled from her lips.
"What's wrong with you, old woman?" snarled Atuye. "What harm can a herd of timid gazelles do?"
"They don't look so timid to me," said Mwiya. "I thought you said there were scores of them, Falil. Looks more like hundreds now."
"She called them," Falil muttered.
"I cannot stop them," cried Kuya Adowa. "Run!"
"From gazelles?" Atuye scoffed.
A four-legged body arrowed toward him, head down, horns pointed outward. The sharp tips of the horns took Atuye full in the chest. With a strangled cry he went down, eyes wide in incredulity even as blood spurted from his mouth.
Terrified, the others turned and ran, dropping staves and torches alike in the panic that clawed at their souls. They were too slow. Living projectiles of hoof and horn hurtled like lightning among them. The
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