The Summoner: (10 page)

“I’m not one to pry into other people’s affairs, but if there’s something you want to talk about…”

“There isn’t.”

“You just seem more involved than I thought you’d be. I thought I’d be the one trying to convince you of the urgency of the situation, but you don’t need any prompting. Do you have a connection to Addison?”

“This is my country, and I revere it. I don’t want it polluted by this filth. Have you forgotten what they did in your apartment?”

“Far from it. And I’m glad you’re on board. I can use the help maneuvering around this country.”

“You seem to fare just fine. Certainly better than Mr. Powell and many of your other countrymen I’ve had to deal with.”

“I find that if you treat people with respect, they’ll usually do the same.”

“Unfortunately that’s an exceedingly rare practice.”

The traffic broke at last. Nya sped ahead, creeping fingers of dusk already bruising the sky.

Grey studied Nya out of the corner of his eye. An aura of strength emanated from the svelte line of her jaw, and he glimpsed a kindred spirit: eyes that had seen beyond their years, eyes that had lived with pain and suffered the scourge of loneliness. A part of him wanted to reach out to her, to reveal that he, too, had seen—that he understood. But he chose not to, because his pride enslaved him even more than his loneliness, and his pride shied from the vulnerability of commiseration as does a vampire from the light.

He did, however, need to find out if she was hiding something that concerned the case. He would push when the time was right.

Soon after the roadblock they passed the Mukuvisi game preserve nestled on the edge of the city, and then came the desolate shells of the empty stores and gas stations lining the outer suburbs.

The population density of the “suburbs,” as the various sections of Harare are referred to, increases in inverse proportion to the size of the walls surrounding the residences. As they reached the abominably crowded high-density areas, the walls had disappeared; barriers serve no purpose when there is nothing to steal.

Grey saw clusters of dwellings cobbled together with home-made brick, cement and corrugated iron. People crowded the streets, some walking home from their jobs or the shop, some huddled around maize cooking inside a rusted trash can, some sending their children to the cars to beg. Grey stared out the window, unable to tear his eyes away.

They left the outskirts and drove through a forest of dry lowland scrub. Dwarfish, gnarled msasa trees canvassed the landscape like a horde of oaks in their withered old age. Then, as if conjured by a sorcerer, huge granite rocks appeared, dotting the landscape like the discarded toys of giant children. At first the formations were few and far between, but gradually they began to dominate the landscape: multi-ton boulders stacked on top of each other to create granite towers of mythic absurdity, some sharing mere inches of surface space. Nya explained how millions of years of onion peel weathering had left behind a jumble of red and brown behemoth stones, carved by time into fantastical shapes.

They left the main road with the setting sun and followed a narrowing dirt road deep into the interior. Grey leaned back in his seat. “What is it exactly you do for the Ministry?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“Your job title is classified?”

“Under this regime it is.”

Grey thought he detected a note of bitterness in her voice. Now
that
was interesting. “Given the nature of this case,” he said, “I think it’s important we trust each other. Things might get unpleasant. They might get unpleasant tonight.”

“Trust is good.”

“As a show of good faith, there’s something I want to tell you. I did a bit of investigation on my own yesterday.”

“You know that’s not permitted.”

“I apologize. Kick me out of the country if you want. But the opportunity arose, time is tight, I couldn’t reach you, and I felt it needed to be done.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to Addison’s apartment and searched it.”

“Fair enough. He’s an American, after all. Did you find anything?”

“A book of matches in one of his pants pockets. They were taken from a place called Club Lucky, in the Avenues. I checked it out.”

She was quiet for a moment. “And?”

“Addison frequents the place. The owner, Lucky, knows him. Claims he sees him every Wednesday night, and was wondering where Addison had been. I couldn’t get a good read on whether or not he was telling the truth. He’s slick.”

“I’ve heard of this place. It doesn’t have the most savory of reputations.”

“I’d think not. There’s one other thing. Lucky, and a few other people in the room, had heard of the
N’anga
.”

“How do you know?”

“When I mentioned his name the room got quiet, and everyone looked at me like I’d just told them the devil was in the room.”

Nya pursed her lips.

“Who is this guy?” Grey said.

The car slowed, and Grey saw the penumbra of the tallest rock tower he’d seen yet looming over the plain below.

“I think we’re about to find out,” Nya murmured. “That’s Leopard’s Castle.”

14

“T
here’s a red glare behind the rocks,” Grey said. “Probably a bonfire. But where are the rest of the cars?”

“Perhaps we’re early, or everyone else is
kumusha
.”

As Grey lowered his window a low pounding greeted them, a steady thrum that filled the desolate bush with confident reverberations. The sound chilled him.

“Drums,” Nya said. She pulled off the road, behind a line of shrubs. Grey stepped out of the car and took cautious steps forward, eyes roving the darkness for signs of anyone lurking in the bush.

They approached the flickering light unhindered, and the outlines of hundreds of human figures took shape. Throngs of people surrounded a circle of torches lining the perimeter of a large clearing. The clearing was empty except for a waist-high stone block in the center.

Grey and Nya had both dressed down for the occasion, in worn pants and nondescript dark shirts. Grey knew he didn’t exactly blend in, but at least one other white American had attended a ceremony.

Of course, Grey thought, he disappeared at the end of it.

Many of the people wore some type of face paint or mask; he wished Taps had mentioned that. The worshippers seemed to be in their own world, gyrating to the slow beat of the drums, arms waving, hips grinding out a primal rhythm. Some danced in place, some wove in and around the others. The darkness and chaotic nature of the scene made it easy for Grey and Nya to move about unnoticed. They kept to the rear and no one paid them the slightest attention.

The humid air throbbed with energy as the drums increased in tempo, chaining the worshippers to their mesmeric cadence, leaving them poised on the edge of abandon. The drums were more than instruments: they commanded, controlled, ensorcelled the crowd
.

Sporadic shouts and chants rose from the worshippers. Grey couldn’t make out any of the words, and when he asked Nya she shook her head in confusion.

“I don’t suppose you recognize anyone.”

“Don’t be daft.”

They continued moving around the perimeter of the worshippers, passing the drummers on the opposite end from where they had entered: three men employing their entire bodies to pound on enormous, free-standing drums, sweat pouring from shirtless torsos.

Grey had been in many bizarre situations in his life, but never one like this. He wasn’t even able to judge the danger quotient yet; he just knew that this was
foreign
.

Soon after Grey and Nya circumnavigated the outer perimeter, the drums slowed to a delayed beat echoed by deep, ominous booms. The crowd chanted, this time as one voice, calling out a single word that erupted out of the darkness.

N’anga
.

Nya took Grey’s arm and pulled him around to look in the direction she was facing. A section of the worshippers had parted, allowing space for a man in blood-red robes to pass through the crowd. Four pairs of bodyguards surrounded him, dressed in white linens and spaced in even intervals in front and behind him.

“That’s got to be him,” Nya said.

“Let’s get closer.”

They moved deeper into the crowd, acutely aware they didn’t belong. They took up a position along the edge of the narrow corridor that had formed for the procession. Only one row of people separated them from the pathway.

The two bodyguards in front passed by them. Grey’s eyes widened. “I know that man.”

“What? Which one?”

“The one in front, on the right. He’s one of Lucky’s men.”

“How sure are you?”

“Positive.”

The next two passed, followed by two more, and then they were ten feet from the eye of the storm. The carmine robes draped the
N’anga
from neck to ground, making any identification of his physical features, other than his charcoal hands, impossible. Grey swore.

A mask cloaked his neck and head: an oversized, hideous headdress that could have come from a child’s nightmare. Two massive black horns sprang from the top of the mask, curving back two feet above and behind the head. The mask had been stained the disquieting color of boiled flesh, as if the dye had magically captured the flush of a finger just after it had been dipped in the saucepan.

Except for the mouth, the shape and features of the front of the mask also possessed a disturbing verisimilitude of humanity—life-sized ears, nose and eyes—before coalescing into a misshapen mass where the face met the horns. The mouth was a jagged monstrosity painted in crimson; the eyes hollowed orbs that revealed nothing of the depths recessed within.

The
N’anga
walked with a deliberate, regal gait that even the gruesome costume failed to conceal. This was a man, Grey thought, whose commanding presence came naturally, a man whose force of will emanated from him as if stoked inside an internal furnace.

As he passed Grey’s and Nya’s position, he paused. He remained staring straight ahead, as he had the entire time, but Grey had the sensation that he was somehow watching them. He felt a light brush of clothing as Nya inched closer to him.

The procession moved forward, and Grey let out his breath. The men in front stopped to pick up the two torches barring the path to the clearing, and the bodyguards spread out inside the perimeter of the circle.

The
N’anga
moved to the center of the clearing, next to the stone altar. He thrust his arms skyward and held them aloft. The chanting ceased, but the drums continued in the background.

Grey’s eyes roamed the circle. Each of the men in white linen now grasped a live chicken by its neck. The men drew knives out of their robes and raised the chickens to head-height, facing the crowd. The pounding of the drums increased. The
N’anga
dropped his arms, and as one the men pulled back the heads of their captive birds, held the bodies against their chests, and sliced their throats.

Blood geysered skyward outside the circle, splattering the crowd. The worshippers began to shout and dance again, more frenzied than before, convulsing as they embraced the sacrifice.

Grey shielded his face with his arms, and saw Nya doing the same. Torn arteries from the spasming chickens rained blood upon the crowd, and warm drops landed on his arm. Nya looked as aghast as he felt.

Nya grabbed his arm and flicked her eyes towards a group of worshippers to her right, who were holding up their hands as the blood fell upon them. They let it pool into their cupped palms and shoveled it into their mouths, then spread the remnants on their clothes and faces.

Grey grimaced and turned back to the
N’anga
. That was not a memory he wanted to cherish.

The
N’anga
stood motionless in the middle of the circle, gazing on the crowd from behind the mask. The flow of blood stopped, the poor creatures drained of life, and the bodyguards tossed the carcasses into the crowd.

The
N’anga
turned to face the direction from which he’d entered. He made a sweeping motion and the crowd parted again, creating another corridor. The drums held their tempo. Two more men appeared, clad in the same white linen as the first group. They led a goat down the corridor and into the circle.

Grey reminded himself there was nothing they could do. It was unfortunate, but it was only an animal, and as despicable as he’d found the reaction of the worshippers, the kill had been clean and swift. It’s a different culture, he told himself. It’s more humane than the slaughterhouse.

The goat strained against the ropes, eyes bulging in fear. The two men led it to the altar and set it down, such that the bottom of its chest rested on the top of the altar. Its hooves barely touched the ground. The men looped the rope around the animal’s limbs and tied them off into iron rings set into the ground. They stepped back and joined the other bodyguards ringing the torch-lit clearing.

The
N’anga
moved forward. The goat flung its head in terror. The
N’anga
made a series of hand movements, then withdrew a thin, foot-long blade from his robe. Grey saw Nya tense, preparing for the swift cut.

The
N’anga
placed the flat of the blade in the middle of the animal’s back, and held the animal’s head with his free hand. He dipped the blade into the skin and ran it a foot along its back, then raised the knife in the air. A thin piece of flesh hung between his thumb and the blade.

The movement had been shockingly swift, and it took Grey a moment to realize what had happened. Then the animal’s agonized bleating, rising above even the drums and the shouting, brought home the full force of the act. With surgical skill, the
N’anga
had peeled away a strip of the animal’s flesh and left it, flush and forgotten, on the ground.

The
N’anga
repeated the procedure over and over, moving to different parts of the animal’s body and stripping it of its flesh with calm and precision. At times he would pour something from a small vial over the fresh wounds, causing the goat to shriek in pain. Grey’s throat constricted, his breath came in short gasps, his fists clenched and unclenched. He tried to rationalize it, tried to think of a perspective or a reason why this would be tolerable. But he could only watch in numbed silence.