Black Leopard, Red Wolf

“Maybe the citadel. I don’t know. Sometimes his smell is so strong that I think he is where you are, then days later he would vanish as if his scent was something I woke up from. It never goes from strong to weak or weak to strong, just all here sometimes for a few days, then all gone.”

“Fantastic beast indeed.”

“I am a man.”

“I can see that, Tracker.”

He stopped and pressed in my chest. “Viper,” he said.

“Do people say you have an ear?”

“That was not very funny.”

The night hid my smile and I was glad for it. I walked around where he pointed. I heard no river, nor did I smell any river smells.

“Who is this Omoluzu that was after Fumanguru?”

“Would you believe me if I told you?”

“Half a day ago I was in my chambers drinking tea with beer in it. Now I am in Dolingo. Ten days’ ride that took less than one night. I have seen one man possess many and something like dust rise out of dead men.”

“You Kongori do not believe in magic and spirits.”

“I am not Kongori, but you speak true, I do not believe. Some people believe the goddess speaks to leaves so they grow, and whisper in a spell to coax a flower to open wide. Others believe that if they just feed it sun and water, both will make them grow. There are only two things, Tracker: that which men of wisdom can explain, and that which they will explain. Of course you do not agree.”

“Just like all you men of learning. Everything in the world cooks down to two. Either-or, if-then, yes-no, night-day, good-bad. You all believe in twos so much I wonder if any of you can count to three.”

“Harsh. But you are no believer either.”

“Maybe I have no love for sides.”

“Maybe you have no love for commitment.”

“Do we still speak of Omoluzu?”

He laughed too much, I thought. At nearly everything. We came out of the bush. He stretched his hand out to hold me from stepping farther. A cliff, though the drop was not far. The cloud gathered thick in this part of the sky. It made me think of gods of sky walking the nine worlds, causing thunder, but I could not remember when last I heard thunder from the sky.

“There is your river,” he said.

We watched the water below us, still and deep, though you could hear it lash against rocks farther up.

“Omoluzu are roof walkers. Summoned by witches or anyone in a pact with witches. But to summon them is not enough; you must throw the blood of woman or man against the ceiling. Wet or dry. It awakens them, they hunger for it, and they will kill and drink from whoever has it. Many witches have died because they think Omoluzu seeks only the person whose blood is shed. But Omoluzu hunger is monstrous—it is the smell of blood that lures them, not the taste. And once summoned they run along the ceiling the way we run along road, and kill everything not called Omoluzu. I have fought them.”

“What? Where?”

“Another place your wise people would say does not exist. Once they’ve tasted your blood they will never stop following you until you are in the next world. Or the reverse. And you can never live under a roof, or shed, or even pass under a bridge again. They are black like night and thick like tar and when they appear on your ceiling it sounds like thunder and sea. One thing about them. They do not need blood, if your witchcraft is strong, but you would have to be a witch among witches, the greatest necromancer, or at least one of them. One more thing. They never touch the floor, even when they jump; the ceiling pulls them back as surely as this ground pulls us.”

“And these Omoluzu killed elder Fumanguru and his wife and all his sons? Even his servants?” he asked.

“Who else could cleave a woman in two with a single chop?”

“Come, Tracker, we seem to both be men of learning rather than faith. So rest, if you don’t believe her.”

“We both saw this Aesi, and what he can do.”

“Ill wind mixed with dust.”

I yawned.

“Belief or no belief, Tracker, you are losing this fight with night.”

Mossi pulled at his two belts and the scabbard dropped to the ground. Then he stooped, unstrapped both sandals, unwrapped the blue sashes on his tunic, then grabbed his tunic at the neck, pulled the whole thing right off his head, and threw it away as if he would never wear them again. He stood before me, his chest two barrels, his belly waves of muscle, and below that, a patch that drew shadow before anyone could see lower, and ran back from the edge to give himself a start. Before I could say what a mad idea this was, he ran past me and jumped off, yelling all the way till the splash cut him off.

“Fuck all your gods, this is cold! Tracker! Why are you still up there?”

“Because the moon has not made me mad.”

“The moon, precious sister, thinks you are the mad one. A sky with open arms yet you will not fly. A river, her legs spread open, yet you will not dive.”

I could see him splashing and diving in the silver water. Sometimes he was like shadow, but when he floated he was as light as the moon. Two moons when he flipped himself up in a dive.