regretting the solid malachite box he left gleaming on its display table. Maybe when they'd finished helping
Olkeloki they could come back to Nairobi and make like tourists.
Back at the hotel, he was working his key in the room lock when the door next to his opened. Merry
was wearing a short-sleeved cotton shirt and matching pants, having stuffed the heavier Levi's into her
backpack. She all but glowed from her long stay in the tub. Oak stared for a long moment, then
self-consciously looked away.
Olkeloki's not in his room, she told him.
He told me he had to arrange transportation for us to the border tomorrow, to this Nimga place.
Namanga, she corrected him. So that's why he didn't answer his phone. I was beginning to worry.
Oak couldn't keep from smiling.
I didn't stuff myself on the place the way you did, she said. I could use a good breakfast, if they're still
serving it downstairs.
And I could use lunch. Wonder if you can get an ostrich egg omelette?
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I understand the local coffee is wonderful. I'll settle for starting with that.
The security guard on their floor nodded politely as they entered the elevator. Downstairs Merry was
immediately drawn to one of the many hotel gift shops.
Let's go in, Josh.
We're here to save the world, remember? Not to buy trinkets.
I just want to look.
Like most of the shopkeepers within the hotel complex, the owner was Indian. He didn't bow and
scrape, but he smiled a lot and made an attempt to sell Merry one of everything in the store, assuming she
would be the easier touch of the pair. In that he was dead wrong, just as he was unaware that he was
talking to another salesperson.
While he was unsuccessfully haranguing Merry, Oak passed over the malachite and lapis trinkets in favor
of examining the less flippant items for sale. There were masks from West Africa and buffalo hide shields,
intricately carved wooden animals, including a six-foot-tall reticulated giraffe, and several striking carved
African heads of highly polished ebony. One head even looked familiar and it took Oak a moment to
think of who it resembled.
Then it struck him that the ebony carving was a fine rendition of a much younger Mbatian Olkeloki. In
fact, all of the heads were Maasai.
The luckless shopkeeper abandoned Merry in favor of new quarry. All Maasai.
Why is that?
The shopkeeper shrugged and smiled. They are the ones the woodcarvers prefer to carve. He chose a
spear from a barrel in the opposite corner, showed it to Oak. The center section was fashioned of wood.
From its base protruded a two-foot-long metal spire, while the blade which crowned the top was more
than a meter in length and made of solid steel.
Separates into three pieces. The shopkeeper proceeded to demonstrate. Traditional Maasai, very
clever.
Old? asked Oak casually. He was surprised by the honest reply.
No sir, contemporary.
For the tourist trade?
Oh no, sir, not at all. This is a Maasai lion spear. That is why it has the long blade, so it will penetrate all
the way to a lion's heart. A Maasai moran, or warrior, killed a German tourist with one of these just last
year. The tourist wanted to take his picture. The moran warned him not to. Last picture he ever took. All
moran still carry these.
For what? He thought back to what Olkeloki had told him about the current East African government
policies regarding lion-spearing. I happen to know the Maasai no longer are allowed to kill lions just to
prove their manhood.
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That is true enough, sir, but they still carry them. It is a sign of adulthood among the warriors. It is also
very functional, just in case a lion should charge from the bush. The government cannot prevent a man
from defending himself. He handed it to Oak. See the weight of it, sir? A functional device, not merely
something to place on one's living room wall.
Josh. The voice came from the landing above. It was half whisper, half moan. Craning his neck, he
saw Merry standing atop the stairs leading up to the miniature mezzanine. She was staring at something.
She looked as though she'd just seen a ghost. As it developed, he was not far off the mark.
Merry? The proprietor followed him up the stairs, looking concerned.
Is your wife all right?
She's not my wife, Oak said absently. Merry, what's the matter?
Look. She pointed.
Lining the back wall was a crowded collection of ebony and blackwood statues. Few were more than a
foot tall, though one towered more than a meter above the floor. All depicted grotesque, distorted figures
that were loathsome mutations of animals and people. Oak recognized the outlines immediately.
That one there. Merry kept pointing. That one's just like the one that I hit on my way home from
work that morning. Oak started toward it and she tried to hold him back. Don't.
He smiled as he pulled away from her. She didn't relax even after he picked up the carving. See? Just
wood. He examined with interest the disgusting parody of a dog-man, turning the carving over in his
hands.
Shetani. The shopkeeper looked more confused than worried now. Beautiful work, the best. I have
locally made cheap imitations downstairs. These are all from the south coast and the Tanzanian interior.
True Makonde.
Makonde. Oak put the carving down. These aren't done by the Maasai, then?
No, no. The Indian appeared surprised. The Makonde are a small tribe that lives mostly in Tanzania,
though a few have migrated to Kenya. They are noted for their woodcarving and they are the only ones
who can do true shetani. They do little else.
Does the word mean anything?
In the Makonde language shetani means spirit or more often, devil-spirit.' He grinned. Silly
primitivism, but the art is striking, is it not?
Very striking, said Oak dryly. You okay, Merry?
She nodded. I just wish you wouldn't handle it, that's all. Just looking at it makes my stomach turn
over.
Oak continued to study the carving. How far back do these shetani stories go?
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There are records in which such spirits are described by a Greek traveler to this part of the world in
450 b.c. He must have been well and truly taken in by the coast Makonde because he makes reference
to the shetani as real creatures. Herodotus, I believe, was his name. The Makonde say there are [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]