Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (535 page)

“Will you tell us another story?” asked a young girl.

“Not this morning,” I said, getting to my feet. “But when I come to the village tonight to drink
pombe
and watch the dancing, perhaps I will tell you the story about the bull elephant and the wise little Kikuyu boy. Now,” I added, “do none of you have chores to do?”

The children dispersed, returning to their
shambas
and their cattle pastures, and I stopped by Juma’s hut to give him an ointment for his joints, which always bothered him just before it rained. I visited Koinnage and drank
pombe
with him, and then discussed the affairs of the village with the Council of Elders. Finally I returned to my own
boma
, for I always take a nap during the heat of the day, and the rain was not due for another few hours.

Kamari was there when I arrived. She had gathered more wood and water, and was filling the grain buckets for my goats as I entered my
boma
.

“How is your bird this afternoon?” I asked, looking at the pygmy falcon, whose cage had been carefully placed in the shade of my hut.

“He drinks, but he will not eat,” she said in worried tones. “He spends all his time looking at the sky.”

“There are things that are more important to him than eating,” I said.

“I am finished now,” she said. “May I go home, Koriba?”

I nodded, and she left as I was arranging my sleeping blanket inside my hut.

She came every morning and every afternoon for the next week. Then, on the eighth day, she announced with tears in her eyes that the pygmy falcon had died.

“I told you that this would happen,” I said gently. “Once a bird has ridden upon the winds, he cannot live on the ground.”

“Do all birds die when they can no longer fly?” she asked.

“Most do,” I said. “A few like the security of the cage, but most die of broken hearts, for having touched the sky they cannot bear to lose the gift of flight.”

“Why do we make cages, then, if they do not make the birds feel better?”

“Because they make
us
feel better,” I answered.

She paused, and then said: “I will keep my word and clean your hut and your
boma
, and fetch your water and kindling, even though the bird is dead.”

I nodded. “That was our agreement,” I said.

True to her word, she came back twice a day for the next three weeks. Then, at noon on the twenty-ninth day, after she had completed her morning chores and returned to her family’s
shamba
, her father, Njoro, walked up the path to my
boma
.

“
Jambo
, Koriba,” he greeted me, a worried expression on his face.

“
Jambo
, Njoro,” I said without getting to my feet. “Why have you come to my
boma
?”

“I am a poor man, Koriba,” he said, squatting down next to me. “I have only one wife, and she has produced no sons and only two daughters. I do not own as large a
shamba
as most men in the village, and the hyenas killed three of my cows this past year.”

I could not understand his point, so I merely stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“As poor as I am,” he went on, “I took comfort in the thought that at least I would have the bride prices from my two daughters in my old age.” He paused. “I have been a good man, Koriba. Surely I deserve that much.”

“I have not said otherwise,” I replied.

“Then why are you training Kamari to be a
mundumugu
?” he demanded. “It is well known that the
mundumugu
never marries.”

“Has Kamari told you that she is to become a
mundumugu
?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. She does not speak to her mother or myself at all since she has been coming here to clean your
boma
.”

“Then you are mistaken,” I said. “No woman may be a
mundumugu
. What made you think that I am training her?”

He dug into the folds of his
kikoi
and withdrew a piece of cured wildebeest hide. Scrawled on it in charcoal was the following inscription:

I AM KAMARI

I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD

I AM A GIRL

“This is writing,” he said accusingly. “Women cannot write. Only the
mundumugu
and great chiefs like Koinnage can write.”

“Leave this with me, Njoro,” I said, taking the hide, “and send Kamari to my
boma
.”

“I need her to work on my
shamba
until this afternoon.”

“Now,” I said.

He sighed and nodded. “I will send her, Koriba.” He paused. “You are certain that she is not to be a
mundumugu
?”

“You have my word,” I said, spitting on my hands to show my sincerity.

He seemed relieved, and went off to his
boma
. Kamari came up the path a few minutes later.

“
Jambo
, Koriba,” she said.

“
Jambo
, Kamari,” I replied. “I am very displeased with you.”

“Did I not gather enough kindling this morning?” she asked.

“You gathered enough kindling.”

“Were the gourds not filled with water?”

“The gourds were filled.”

“Then what did I do wrong?” she asked, absently pushing one of my goats aside as it approached her.

“You broke your promise to me.”

“That is not true,” she said. “I have come every morning and every afternoon, even though the bird is dead.”

“You promised not to look at another book,” I said.

“I have not looked at another book since the day you told me that I was forbidden to.”

“Then explain
this
,” I said, holding up the hide with her writing on it.

“There is nothing to explain,” she said with a shrug. “I wrote it.”

“And if you have not looked at books, how did you learn to write?” I demanded.

“From your magic box,” she said. “You never told me not to look at it.”

“My magic box?” I said, frowning.

“The box that hums with life and has many colors.”

“You mean my computer?” I said, surprised.

“Your magic box,” she repeated.

“And it taught you how to read and write?”

“I taught me—but only a little,” she said unhappily. “I am like the shrike in your story—I am not as bright as I thought. Reading and writing is very difficult.”

“I told you that you must not learn to read,” I said, resisting the urge to comment on her remarkable accomplishment, for she had clearly broken the law.

Kamari shook her head.

“You told me I must not look at your books,” she replied stubbornly.

“I told you that women must not read,” I said. “You have disobeyed me. For this you must be punished.” I paused. “You will continue your chores here for three more months, and you must bring me two hares and two rodents, which you must catch yourself. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Now come into my hut with me, that you may understand one thing more.”

She followed me into the hut.

“Computer,” I said. “Activate.”

“Activated,” said the computer’s mechanical voice.

“Computer, scan the hut and tell me who is here with me.”

The lens of the computer’s sensor glowed briefly.

“The girl, Kamari wa Njoro, is here with you,” replied the computer.

“Will you recognize her if you see her again?”

“Yes.”

“This is a Priority Order,” I said. “Never again may you converse with Kamari wa Njoro verbally or in any known language.”

“Understood and logged,” said the computer.

“Deactivate.” I turned to Kamari. “Do you understand what I have done, Kamari?”

“Yes,” she said, “and it is not fair. I did not disobey you.”

“It is the law that women may not read,” I said, “and you have broken it. You will not break it again. Now go back to your
shamba
.”

She left, head held high, youthful back stiff with defiance, and I went about my duties, instructing the young boys on the decoration of their bodies for their forthcoming circumcision ceremony, casting a counterspell for old Siboki (for he had found hyena dung within his
shamba
, which is one of the surest signs of a
thahu
, or curse), instructing Maintenance to make another minor orbital adjustment that would bring cooler weather to the western plains.

By the time I returned to my hut for my afternoon nap, Kamari had come and gone again, and everything was in order.

For the next two months, life in the village went its placid way. The crops were harvested, old Koinnage took another wife and we had a two-day festival with much dancing and
pombe
-drinking to celebrate the event, the short rains arrived on schedule, and three children were born to the village. Even the Eutopian Council, which had complained about our custom of leaving the old and the infirm out for the hyenas, left us completely alone. We found the lair of a family of hyenas and killed three whelps, then slew the mother when she returned. At each full moon I slaughtered a cow—not merely a goat, but a large, fat cow—to thank Ngai for His generosity, for truly He had graced Kirinyaga with abundance.

During this period I rarely saw Kamari. She came in the mornings when I was in the village, casting the bones to bring forth the weather, and she came in the afternoons when I was giving charms to the sick and conversing with the Elders—but I always knew she had been there, for my hut and my
boma
were immaculate, and I never lacked for water or kindling.

Then, on the afternoon after the second full moon, I returned to my
boma
after advising Koinnage about how he might best settle an argument over a disputed plot of land, and as I entered my hut I noticed that the computer screen was alive and glowing, covered with strange symbols. When I had taken my degrees in England and America I had learned English and French and Spanish, and of course I knew Kikuyu and Swahili, but these symbols represented no known language, nor, although they used numerals as well as letters and punctuation marks, were they mathematical formulas.

“Computer, I distinctly remember deactivating you this morning,” I said, frowning. “Why does your screen glow with life?”

“Kamari activated me.”

“And she forgot to deactivate you when she left?”

“That is correct.”

“I thought as much,” I said grimly. “Does she activate you every day?”

“Yes.”

“Did I not give you a Priority Order never to communicate with her in any known language?” I said, puzzled.

“You did, Koriba.”

“Can you then explain why you have disobeyed my directive?”

“I have not disobeyed your directive, Koriba,” said the computer. “My programming makes me incapable of disobeying a Priority Order.”

“Then what is this that I see upon your screen?”

“This is the Language of Kamari,” replied the computer. “It is not among the 1,732 languages and dialects in my memory banks, and hence does not fall under the aegis of your directive.”

“Did you create this language?”

“No, Koriba. Kamari created it.”

“Did you assist her in any way?”

“No, Koriba, I did not.”

“Is it a true language?” I asked. “Can you understand it?”

“It is a true language. I can understand it.”

“If she were to ask you a question in the Language of Kamari, could you reply to it?”

“Yes, if the question were simple enough. It is a very limited language.”

“And if that reply required you to translate the answer from a known language to the Language of Kamari, would doing so be contrary to my directive?”

“No, Koriba, it would not.”

“Have you in fact answered questions put to you by Kamari?”

“Yes, Koriba, I have,” replied the computer.

“I see,” I said. “Stand by for a new directive.”

“Waiting…”

I lowered my head in thought, contemplating the problem. That Kamari was brilliant and gifted was obvious: she had not only taught herself to read and write, but had actually created a coherent and logical language that the computer could understand and in which it could respond. I had given orders, and without directly disobeying them she had managed to circumvent them. She had no malice within her, and wanted only to learn, which in itself was an admirable goal. All that was on the one hand.

On the other hand was the threat to the social order we had labored so diligently to establish on Kirinyaga. Men and women knew their responsibilities and accepted them happily. Ngai had given the Maasai the spear, and He had given the Wakamba the arrow, and He had given the Europeans the machine and the printing press, but to the Kikuyu He had given the digging-stick and the fertile land surrounding the sacred fig tree on the slopes of Kirinyaga.