Conan and the Shaman's Curse (16 page)

He needed to leave this strange island and return to the kingdoms of Hyborea, where he could seek a cure to the shaman’s curse. The sooner he left, the better. He wanted no more of the strange dreams. Worse yet, the curse might strike him again. If it came upon him at night in the village... he would butcher Ganak elders and children. He shuddered, cold sweat suddenly dampening his brow.

Ships had landed here, perhaps centuries ago, and Conan was determined to learn of their origin. Even the mariners of old kept logs or carried maps and charts. If Conan could but find where the mainland lay, half of his problem would be solved.

The other half—how to get to the mainland—was another problem entirely.

XIII

Song of the Shell-Spirits

Ngomba groaned, struggling to rise from his bed of leaves and marsh grass. His body was a red mass of ravaged flesh. Multi-hued salves had been applied to the slashes; blood-crusted leaves covered patches on his head and upper body where the Kezati talons had tom away the skin.

Y’Taba stood over the injured Ganak, watching for a short while before deciding what should be done. Ngomba had lost so much blood that his skin was as pale as the stranger’s. The jumbura and gurundi berry-juices, which had considerable healing power, had not closed the deep gashes in Ngomba’s body. Y’Taba believed that Ngomba’s wounds and his pain were punishment, meted out by the gods for the sins of pride and disobedience.

Ngomba would recover. He might even grow wiser, if he learned any of the harsh lessons taught by the day’s events. Y’Taba had watched Ngomba grow up; a stubborn boy with a tongue as sharp as his wit who had never before known defeat. And he had always gotten his way— until Jukona forbade him to join with Sajara.

At first Ngomba had driven himself to win Jukona’s favour. Ngomba had ever been larger than Ganaks of his age, but still he pushed his body beyond the limits of endurance. When Jukona told the warriors to circle the village seven times as fast as they could run, Ngomba would circle it ten, twelve, even fourteen times. When the sun dipped from the sky and the other warriors slept in their huts, Ngomba sat at the feet of any elder who would talk to him, drinking lore like kuomo.

Ngomba learned patience. He asked Jukona again, this time in proper custom, for permission to become Sajara’s mate. She pleaded with Jukona, telling him that she would join only with Ngomba.

Still, Jukona refused to give his consent. On that day, he and Ngomba had become enemies, bitter as the oil of vanukla leaves. The young warrior immediately challenged Jukona in the Ghanuta. But Y’Taba had forbidden the combat, saying to Ngomba that he must first prove himself in battle with the Kezati. Later, the village’s old Ranioba named Sajara as her successor. The joining was then impossible; Raniobas may not be joined until they have chosen and trained a replacement. And indeed, Sajara had seemed to lose some interest in Ngomba when she became Ranioba.

Ngomba finally seemed to give up. He withdrew from the other Ganaks, spending much time by himself. The only enthusiasm he showed was during the warrior exercises, at which he excelled. He became more surly with the passing of every day.

Y’Taba looked down upon the battered, slashed form of his son, a tear wetting his wrinkled cheek. No Ganak knew this hidden truth: their spirit-leader was the father of Ngomba. And Y’Taba would never confess. The gods would damn him for it, he knew. For his silence, Ngomba had suffered as no Ganak should.

His son had been conceived on the very eve that he had become Y’Taba. He had been weak on that night of madness, and the gods had punished him for it.

The elders said that kuomo opened the ears of men to the whispers of Anamobi, Moon Goddess who delighted in the pleasures of the flesh.

The moon goddess need not have whispered to Y’Taba on that night; Nyona Ranioba's beauty spoke well enough for itself. He had fallen in love with her, but he was Y’Taba. Spirit-leaders of old who had joined had lost much of their powers to heal—their power to command the spirits in the shells that hung around Y’Taba’s neck. And Nyona was Ranioba. To seek a joining was to ask her to name a successor and give up her chosen way of life.

After their night together, she vanished into the Dead-lands. The face of the moon thinned, vanished, and became full again until the search for Nyona ended. The Deadlands swallowed her up.

When he saw her again, he had become Y’Taba. He had no memory of his former name; it was a shadow, washed from his mind like a footprint in a rainstorm. It had ever been so, since the first Y’Taba. But he would never forget the night of her return. A woman had given birth to a child that day, a child suffering from a wasting disease. Y’Taba, alone with the child, had used every herb, every berry, every prayer at his disposal to heal the child. But the gods had sealed the infant’s fate, taking him into the lands of grey.

On that moonless night, Nyona slipped unseen into Y’Taba’s hut. In her arms she held an infant boy... their son, Ngomba.

She had begged him to give their son to the parents of the dead child, and he had agreed. After a brief, almost bitter embrace, she had taken the body of the other infant and disappeared again. He wondered what had become of Nyona. Had she fallen prey to a beast of the Deadlands, or had she made a secret home in the trees? Sometimes he dreamed that she still lived, still came to the edge of the village and watched him.

Y’Taba covered his face with his sweating palms, his heart almost bursting from the burden of guilt that lay upon it. That weight had grown heavier with the passing of every day. Had his misdeed brought about the evil that had come to pass? Had the gods waited until now to mete out his punishment? If so, the blood of all Ganaks might stain his soul eternally. He shivered, although his hut was warm. Crouching, he placed his palm upon Ngomba’s feverish brow.

“You spoke truly, my son,” he whispered. “I am an old fool. May the gods forgive me for my pride and grant me the power to heal you.”

Y’Taba closed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around his necklace of ebon shells. During his lifetime, he had seldom called upon the spirits in the shells. They heeded only the spirit-leader’s call; their secrets were known only to the Y’Tabas, who passed them down to successors.

Clearing his mind of turbulent thoughts, he inhaled and exhaled in slow, regular intervals. Speaking to the shell-spirits was in some ways like a game played by young Ganaks, in which flat stones were skipped across the waters adjoining the Ganaku beaches. A stone thrown just so would skip many times and travel far if the seas were placid.

Y’Taba, however, was not throwing stones. He was skipping words—his thoughts—across the sea of his mind. Concentrating, he found his inner voice and began whispering to the shell-spirits. His palm pressed against Ngomba’s sweat-slicked brow as his grip on the shells tightened. His thoughts skipped and spun outward until they faded into the distance. He listened for a response, for something to reach the ears of his mind.

There! They had heard him. His hand tingled, as if covered with hundreds of biting ants. The feeling travelled along his arm and moved inward, past his skin, until he felt it in his bones. A hum—the song of the shell-spirits— emanated from his fist, deafening him.

Ngomba’s mouth opened in a cry that was drowned by the hum. Y’Taba clenched the shells in a grip so fierce that it whitened his knuckles. Sweat streamed down his face and veins pulsed at his temples. The spirits had awakened; their song rang in his ears, unbearably loud, and he fought to keep his eyes closed. The shell-spirits were angry at him for rousing them. The song ended as suddenly as it had begun. They were resisting him; he must try harder.

Heart pounding, pulse racing, he again called out to them with his thoughts. “By the will of Asusa Sun God, come to me—now!” And be bore down again on the shells, so fiercely that one cracked in his palm, its shards digging painfully into his flesh.

The room was plunged into silence, and before him stood the spirits. They appeared as shapes of water, transparent and rippling, and they shimmered like veils of dew in the hut’s dim light. Their forms changed constantly: tall, thin spirals; squat, bobbing spheres; and shallow, spinning ovals.

“Long has it been since you last dared to awaken us,” they murmured, their voices a distant wail in his mind. “Again we hear your call, if only to honour. our promise to Asusa. Speak your purpose for this summons.”

‘To heal the wounds of Ngomba, who lies here before us. Wash him in your waters of healing and make him well again.”

Twisting and churning, the spirits spoke again. “Know that you have broken the trust which binds us to obey you. You have joined with the one called Nyona.”

“That was long ago,” Y’Taba objected.

“Your voice does not bend us to the will of Asusa. For the sake of Muhingo, who is beloved of Asusa, we shall do the task to which you have set us. Know also that only once more shall we come when called by you, and then only if your summons pleases Muhingo.”

They flowed together, forming a wave that swept across Ngomba, leapt into the air, and vanished.

Y’Taba sat heavily, panting. His ears rang and a dull pain throbbed in his bones. He stared at his son, whose wounds were closing, fading before his eyes. Realizing that he was still grasping the shells, he relaxed his grip and eyed his aching palm. Fragments of a crushed shell had lodged into his palm, blood welling up in the tiny punctures and seeping into the cracks of his skin.

Ngomba stirred, looking up at Y’Taba’s face through half-closed eyes.

The spirit-leader’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Your body is well. Rest, Ngomba... let your spirit heal.”

The young Ganak’s eyes closed again; his breaths became deep and even, slowing as he drifted back to sleep.

“As for me,” Y’Taba said under his breath, “my night will be long.” He brushed shell fragments from his hand, wiping off the blood with damp leaves.

He rose slowly, standing tall and squaring his shoulders. His people needed a strong Y’Taba. He must appear confident, not weary or afraid. Stifling a yawn, he walked outside to hear the stranger’s tale.

Then Y’Taba would make decisions that would save —or perhaps destroy—the Ganak people.

Jukona shifted on the smooth wood that marked the edge of the place of gathering. A sudden weariness had settled over him.

He and Conan were finishing their tale of escape from the Deadlands. Y’Taba and a small group of elders listened, staring intently. “And when I found Conan, she had nearly drawn the spirit from his body—or was it spirits?” Jukona took a long drink from his coconut shell, draining every drop of kuomo juice. “Unless some trick of the Deadlands deceived my old eyes. You cast two shadows back there—one in your shape, the other in the shape of... something else. How could this be—unless you have two spirits? Or is this the way of people from Cimmeria, Conan?”

Conan’s eyes narrowed. Two shadows? “Nay. Perhaps it was a tree’s shadow, or as you said, some trick of the sun.” He took a casual swig of kuomo. It was an agreeable, heady drink, its flavour similar to Zembabwan coconut wine.

Jukona rubbed his jaw. “It was taller than any Ganak. Its head was huge and misshapen, and its arms reached nearly to the ground. Its legs were short but thick. It looked more like... a beast... than a man. I hope never to meet a beast that casts such a shadow.” He grabbed another shell, gulping kuomo.

Y’Taba’s brow wrinkled. “The shadow was no trick of the Deadlands,” he said, studying Conan’s face. “When I first saw you, Conan of Cimmeria, I saw this beast. It lurked in your eyes, cringing back from the bright face of Asusa Sun God.”

Conan scowled, his fingers twitching instinctively toward the hilt of his sword, which had finally been returned to him. This spirit-leader was no hoax; he had somehow discovered the shaman’s curse. It was still there, no doubt waiting for the moon to again wax full. Conan’s flesh crawled at the memory of the carnage his ape-self had left aboard the Mistress... slaughter more wanton than a tribe of berserk £iris.

A thought sparked in Conan’s mind, kindling a flame of hope. Earlier today, Y’Taba had spoken of healing the wounded. He was shaman, a spirit-leader. Did he have the power to disenchant the shaman’s ape-spell?

“But all men have a beast inside them,” Y’Taba continued, and the elders nodded solemnly. “A newborn is more beast than man, but the gods make our spirits stronger than the beast within us. We draw strength from our beasts and wisdom from our gods. It is this balance that separates us from animals—like the Kezati, who are dominated by their beasts. But I will speak more of them later, and we will decide what is to be done.

“You, Conan of Cimmeria, play a part in our decision. Already you have fought alongside our warriors, slaying many Kezati. You owe nothing to us. Yet I ask you, on behalf of my people, to aid us in what may be our only hope of survival.” He surveyed the sombre faces of the elders, many of whom had locked their gaze on Conan.

Jukona rose suddenly, eyes flashing. “By Asusa, you would ask this of him? He sides with us once though we are not his kin, turning the tide of a hopeless battle. And we thank him by stealing his weapon and leaving him to die—”

“You abandoned him on the shores of bone,” Y’Taba glowered. “As warrior-leader, you should have opposed Ngomba.”

Jukona reddened; his shoulders slumped. “It is as you say, Y’Taba. But in this you give no choice to Conan, for his is the honour. of a warrior. If he declines, you steal his honour. As you said, he owes us nothing.” He sighed heavily. “And yet I understand why you ask this of him.”

Y’Taba stood. He was even taller than Jukona, and his stem gaze further shortened the warrior-leader. “Conan of Cimmeria, you are by all accounts as mighty a warrior as any Ganak who ever lived. The elders believe that our gods summoned you to save us from doom. But we know not how—or if—we can defeat the Kezati. The clouds of a great storm darken what few days may be left to us. As it was in our past, one warrior may make the difference between the survival... or destruction... of the Ganak people.