Black Leopard, Red Wolf

And this puddle. It stopped spreading and reversed, closed in on itself and started to rise, like dough being kneaded by invisible hands. The black shiny dough rose and twisted, and squeezed in, and spread out, even as it grew taller and wider. It twisted on itself, getting so thin in the middle that it would break in two. And still it grew. Little pieces popped away like droplets, then flew back and joined the mass. The Leopard snarled but did not move. The slaver still did not look. The black mass was whispering something I did not understand, not to me but on the air. At the top of the mass a face pushed itself out and sucked itself back in. The face pushed through the middle and vanished again. Two branches sprouted from the top of the mass and turned into limbs. The bottom split and twisted and spun into legs and toes. The form shaped itself, sculpted itself, curved herself into wide hips, plump breasts, the legs of a runner and the shoulders of a thrower, and a head with no hair and bright white eyes, and when she smiled, bright white teeth. She seemed to hiss. As she walked she left droplets of black, but the droplets followed her. Some separated from her head but followed her as well. Truly, she moved as if underwater, as if our air was water, as if all movement was dance. She grabbed a cloak near the slaver and dressed herself. The slaver still did not look at her.

“Leopard, the torch,” I said. “The torch right there.”

I pointed at the wall. The black woman saw the Leopard and smiled.

“I am not the one you think,” she said. Her voice was clear, but vanished on air. She would not raise her voice to make herself heard.

“I think you are exactly as I think,” I said. I took the torch from the Leopard. “And I would guess there is as much hate between you and flame as there was with them.”

“Who is she, Tracker?” the Leopard said.

“Who am I, Wolf Eye? Tell him.”

She turned to me, but said to the Leopard, “The wolf fears that by saying them he will invoke them. Say I lie, if I lie, Tracker.”

“Who?” said the Leopard.

“I fear nothing, Omoluzu,” I said.

“I rose from the floor while they fall from the ceiling. I speak while they say nothing. Yet you call me Omoluzu?”

“Every beast has its comelier version.”

“I am Bunshi, in the North. The people in the West call me Popele.”

“You must be one of the lower gods. A godlet. A bush spirit. Maybe even an imp,” I said.

“News of your nose I have heard, but nobody said anything about your mouth.”

“How he keeps putting his foot in it?” Nsaka Ne Vampi said.

“You know of me?”

“Everybody knows of you. A great friend of cheated wives and an enemy to cheating husbands. How loudly your mother must boast of you,” Bunshi said.

“And what are you, God’s piss? God’s spit, or maybe God’s semen?”

Around me the air got thick and thicker. Every animal knows there is water in the air even without rain. But something was clotting around my nose and it was hard to breathe. The air got denser and wetter and surrounded my head. I thought it was the room but it was only my head, a ball of water forming and trying to force itself up my nostrils even without me breathing. Drowning me. I fell to the floor. The Leopard changed and jumped at the woman. She fell to the ground as a puddle and rose up on the other side of the room, right into the squashing hand of the Ogo around her neck. She tried slipping out but couldn’t change. Something about his touch. He nodded towards me, holding her up like a doll, and the water broke away into air. I coughed. The Ogo dropped the woman.

“Leopard, stay if you wish. I go,” I said.

The old woman spoke.

“Tracker. I am Sogolon, daughter of Kiluya from the third sister empire of Nigiki, and yes you speak true. There is more to this story. Will you hear it?” the old woman said.

“Tracker?” said the Leopard.

“Fine, I will,” I said to her, and stood ground.

“Then speak it, goddess,” Sogolon said to Bunshi.

Bunshi turned to the slaver and said, “Leave us.”

“If your story is the same as his, or even more dull, I will sit with this knife and carve nasty scenes on the floor,” I said.

“What do you know of your King?” she said.

“I know he’s not my King,” the Leopard said.

“Nor mine,” I said. “But of every coin I make the Malakal chief wants half so he can give the King quarter, so yes he is my King.”

Bunshi sat in the slaver’s chair as men do, leaning to one side, her left leg over the arm. Nsaka was at the doorway, looking out. The Ogo stood still, and the old woman Sogolon stopped writing runes in the air. I felt like I was around children waiting on the grandfather to tell them a new story about old Nan-si, the spider demon who was a man once. It reminded me to never take the story of any god or spirit or magical being to be all true. If the gods created everything, was truth not just another creation?