Pristine, page 10
As though the gods heard his wish, the image of the blue-eyed spirit flashed in his mind: he saw her whisper ‘wofai’—peace. And his soul immediately reached for the almost tangible aura of peace that surrounded the beautiful spirit. He felt it. He floated in it and sighed as the spirit whispered again, ‘wofai.’
Binah Umor was staring at eyes the colour of the sky. He’d never seen such eyes before, yet he knew their owner was the cause of his defeat. He wanted to know more of those eyes, but the light from it stole the warrior’s soul from his grasp, quite easily. His soul just drifted away peacefully, a totally unacceptable situation. A man that died in peace had nothing to offer. A warrior that died in peace was a travesty, a waste of meat that could have filled him with more power.
The binah was furious.
“Binah.” One of the elders dared to creep close. “He is dead,” he observed unnecessarily as the binah continued to stare into the vacant eyes of the dead warrior.
A sacrifice was in order, Binah Umor thought snidely. He had a need to investigate and find out who owned the eyes of the sky, and when he did, he would destroy that person. A sacrifice was in order, and the stupid elder creeping close towards his elbow would do.
Binah Umor sank his claws into the eyes of the dead warrior and excavated both slippery balls, ripping them from his head. He dragged and dragged the bloody, squishy tendons that seemed like an endless rope coming from the warrior’s head. Impatiently, he clamped his teeth on the ropey nerves that connected the eyes to the head and severed them with a snap. Pieces of tendon and drops of blood hung from his untidy beard and around his mouth. Then his tongue slipped out, licking as far around his mouth as he could, his eyes shining evilly.
The elders gasped and stepped away from the unsavoury gore they were seeing. But it was too late for the elder that had dared to step close earlier. Binah’s hand snapped out sharply and rounded the elder’s throat.
The others ran, scattering like dead leaves in the wind, but Binah Umor didn’t care. With the eyes in his palm and a sacrifice in his grasp, he strode through the darkness to his shrine, logging the choking elder along like a piece of wood.
Without finesse, and with impatience, he carved up the stupid elder, dragging out his entrails and throwing each major organ into the fire as he murmured incantations that should make him see through the warrior’s eyes, yet he saw nothing.
Finally, he flung in the heart and growled out the incantations, willing the dead eyes to show him what he wanted while slightly believing he wouldn’t be shown, but then…he saw.
He saw the whole battle. He saw what defeated him. Peace defeated him.
“Wofai!” he spat in disdain, his fury building beyond manageable proportions. He looked up to the murky skies and roared his fury and a promise of revenge.
***
Nnanke gasped awake from yet another horrible dream. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she looked around the sacred cave, her home since she’d been accepted by the fertility spirit to be her binah.
After cleansing the women of Yakpani at the spirit river, just before she’d defied Binah Yakpani and Ekori and followed the warriors to the battle at Idomi, she’d begun having strange dreams.
She was used to the spirits whispering to her, giving out instructions of things to do. But the dreams had no explanations and no pattern. Sometimes, she would have nightmares about a bearded man. The engraved staff in his hand made him a binah, but his essence was of deep darkness, as though his soul had been shrouded by a dark force. Nnanke had no idea what these nightmares meant, and the last one was so real, so close, she could almost feel the hot breath of the evil binah on her face as he roared in anger.
Then there was the other dream, about a handsome man.
She sighed and folded her knees into her body as she lay on her pallet, under a wrapper. At the thought of the handsome man, calm stole through her body, the panic and terror of the nightmare instantly melting away.
She had no idea why she was being affected by this strange, unknown man. Was he a spirit? It was the only way she could describe him since thoughts of him, from the first moment she’d dreamt of him, generally calmed her body. Though, there was a time she’d dreamt that he held her in his arms tenderly, then his lips had slowly moved across her skin, sending curious shivers of pleasure through her body; pleasures she’d never known before.
Pleasures that had made her nipples hard and her eyes flutter close. The strange man had then lowered his mouth until he’d found her hard nipples engraving her wrapper and sucked one through the fabric. The bliss from his action had been sharp and white, and it had shocked her awake.
Just like when she’d dreamt of the handsome man, her breath came in pants but not from terror. Furthermore, thoughts of him caused the secret place in between her legs to secrete moisture, confusing her. It only happened when she recalled that dream. The spirits weren’t whispering to her about this man or the evil binah, but she had faith they would soon.
Her eyes roamed the dark cave—a smooth, white stone shaped like a snail’s shell—a giant snail’s shell. She could imagine how the outside looked without seeing it. The snail-shaped cave had been covered in green shrubbery, making it almost invisible in the dense forest of trees and greenery. Nnanke had thought it looked too green, so she’d touched the surface, satisfied when wild flowers, of different bright colours, spread through the green shrubs that covered it.
As though the spirits could read her mind, which they did, the wild flowers grew until it draped heavily over the opening, making it look like a giant mound of wild flowers. It was beautiful and practical because the drape over the opening kept the chill of the night out.
Nnanke sighed, pulling her hand from the cover of her wrapper and touched the smooth cave wall in front of her with her fore finger. A tiny rope of wild flowers grew, swirling beautifully on the smooth surface. It was the first of its kind in the stark interior, and she realized if she did the same all over the wall, the place wouldn’t look so bland. She was excited about her discovery, her mind swirling with different colours of wild flowers and where she’d put them.
Despite her decorative epiphany, she was still worried about her dreams. She considered telling Binah Yakpani and Ekori, but the men were currently furious with her for defying their instructions not to go to battle, most of all Binah Yakpani.
She’d tried to explain the overwhelming push she’d had to follow the warriors. Nnanke couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see that all the warriors would have died and the battle would have proceeded to Yakpani if she’d not been there. With a sigh of frustration, she wondered why the spirits hadn’t spoken to them about the rightness of her actions.
Turning on her pallet of soft grass, she lay looking at the smooth, curved ceiling, imagining drooping flowers from it. Deep down, she was angry at the belligerence of the binah—they both refused to acknowledge that she’d saved the day just because the spirits hadn’t detected it to them, just because she was a woman. Sometimes, she felt that men where quite stupid, but she would never vocalize her thoughts.
Nnanke’s mind returned to the handsome man. Who was he? Why was he in her dreams? Why did he cause these warm, pleasurable feelings in her? Feelings she couldn’t explain; feelings that both scared and excited her.
Just recalling his face now sent tingles through her body. She pressed her legs together to relieve the curious ache she’d begun noticing in her core whenever she dreamt of him. Stranger still how she referred to him as handsome. She had never felt the need to refer to any man as handsome—they all kind of seemed the same to her. None had ever made her giggle like her age mates had when warriors passed the square on a market day. But just the thought of his glistening, dark complexion, the definition of his muscles, the fierceness and intelligence in his eyes, and the warmth with which he stared at her in those same eyes, just made her want to surrender to him, body and soul.
And that was the scary part. How could she want to surrender to a man, body and soul, when she knew she belonged to the gods? Nnanke knew she could never be with any man, not if she wanted to live and protect Yakpani, which was her destiny.
Determinedly, she closed her eyes, deciding there was no need to tell Binah Yakpani and Ekori about the strange dreams, especially about the handsome man and his effect on her body. She would desist from thinking about him at all; the dreams probably meant nothing.
But just before sleep took over her mind, she was reminded that from an early age, her dreams had never been random. They’d all meant something.
Chapter Thirteen
Okoi’s knees weakened at the sight approaching him. The machete fell from his useless fingers in defeat. This was different from outsmarting an animal. He was tired, hungry, and quite honestly, after everything that had happened to him, he lacked the will to fight any longer.
For a man who had no idea where he was headed, he wondered why he’d even bothered to survive this long. Several times, he’d wondered if his being captive on Eugenia’s ship hadn’t been better than his exploration into the forest to the unknown.
Right then, he wondered which would be better: slavery by the white, or slavery by his own people. He was about to find out anyway.
***
He had traipsed the forest, making sure he’d maintained a straight path from the river. Okoi’s aim had been to walk until he happened upon a village or settlement. That he lacked basic local parlance was brushed off with sheer will in favour of a blank mind and energy to make the trek of indeterminate distance. He couldn’t worry about what he couldn’t change; he would use sign language as he’d seen done by the missionaries back at Onitsha.
The paltry food in the cloth bag held close by drawstring had by disciplined rationing sustained him for more than four days. It would’ve made it to the sixth day, but then it rained—a source of much-needed fresh water he’d promptly taken advantage of, filling his water skin. Nevertheless, the rain had destroyed his refection. The bread had melted right before his eyes, the cheese, too, and just so the food wouldn’t waste, he’d gobbled the whole mess up, left with just the bag, a skin full of water, and his machete.
The lack of food hadn’t deterred him at this point; he was in the forest, after all. Wild fruits everywhere had sustained him, seemingly giving him more energy than when he’d only depended on the bagged food that had gone stale long before its destruction.
Okoi had kept track of the days spent in the forest by scratching out the number as sticks on every tree he’d decided would be his bed for every night. By day fourteen, his mind had become delirious from the fever that wracked his body, and he’d lost count because he’d stopped walking for an indeterminate number of days.
He’d been lucky his body had finally succumbed to the mosquito-induced fever close to a river. All he’d done for days had been to reach out and pluck wild, edible-looking plants and then drink as much as he could from the river. He couldn’t even be bothered with climbing a tree at this point—his precaution against wild animals, not when he’d had to crawl to the river bank to drink water because his legs had gone boneless with the fever.
Having totally lost count of days, he had no way of knowing how long he’d spent in the forest. But when his body had regained a modicum of strength, and his limbs didn’t feel as though they were about to melt under him, he’d taken a very long swim in the river, rinsed out his weakened, white cotton cloths, filled his water skin again, and continued his journey, making sure to maintain a straight path.
A path he wasn’t even sure was straight any longer, not when he’d had to divert from really dense bushes where his machete would’ve been useless to clear the way. Or when he’d heard the growl of wild animals and had made the decision to skulk through another trail in the forest.
All he knew was that he followed where the sun rose every morning.
Daybreak made everything better…or was supposed to.
Okoi had barely gone a hundred feet, his leg dragging from fatigue, pain, and lack of sleep when he happened upon chaos. Having to endure excruciating pain, he’d not been paying much attention to his environment.
One moment, he was mentally prodding himself to, at least, make it to the next big tree he could lean on and rest. The next, tall, dark men surrounded him, their bodies and faces haphazardly smeared with native chalk. They all carried spears, some of them with dead, bleeding men hefted over their shoulders.
That’s when the will to survive left him. His hand loosened its hold on the machete, and his legs weakened beneath him. He’d been miraculously surviving all challenges, even escaping being swallowed by a python and ending up with a dislocated arm, but Okoi knew his luck had run out.
The mean faces around him meant certain death, the language they spoke gibberish to his ears. His broken English would be the same to them, too. Okoi knelt, resting his buttocks on his legs, and awaited to die.
Binah Umor broke through the gathered warriors, having just pillaged a small settlement and on their way back to Umor. One of the warriors wondered why the man was dressed in strange garb. Another raised his spear, his face showing disinterest as he readied to kill Okoi.
“Ke ka nung!” Don’t do it! Binah Umor ordered, which shocked the gathered warriors, as they knew their binah never took prisoners unless a woman he liked.
Since the defeat at Idomi, the binah had followed the warriors for every raid, each drawing them closer to Yakpani. The warriors couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just raid their biggest enemy, especially now that binah went with them, making sure they won.
Binah Umor knew their silent questions but refused to answer them. Yakpani was protected, and he hadn’t yet found out how to bridge the protection. So the only plan he had was to raid around it, hoping to draw them out while he waited to meet a certain woman with blue eyes. He was yet to know where she had come from.
Looking at the strangely garbed man before them, a warrior’s aura surrounded him; an aura stronger than the fiercest of Umor warriors. Of course, his warriors couldn’t see this—they saw a weak man not worthy of much.
Binah Umor saw power. He saw a man that had survived the trials of the gods. He saw purpose and a great destiny. Such a man couldn’t be killed like a mere animal. Such a man required a ritual, one that would allow him to take over his sacred essence, which would increase his powers immeasurably.
The man before them had the touch of the gods. He was destined for greatness. Binah Umor was going to take that greatness, for the man wouldn’t know what to do with such powers granted him freely from birth.
Binah Umor laughed, throwing his head backwards at the unexpected gift of the forest. He leaned forward and touched the man of destiny on his temple, sending him into deep slumber. He directed one of the warriors to carry him, and they resumed their return to Umor.
***
Could intense pain really slice through unconsciousness? Okoi answered the question himself when he gasped awake from his faint to realize he was tied up and hanging down horizontal over an unlit hearth. The tightly wound rope bit into his injured arm, the throbbing pain snapping him from his oblivion.
Terror engulfed his mind when he immediately realized what would happen to him when the fireplace was lit. He would become roasted meat, just like the other men. The stench of burning flesh drifted by, and he unfortunately inhaled it deep since he panted in fear.
Instantly, the stink roiled his stomach, causing nausea. He was ready to vomit bile since his stomach was empty. Bitter liquid dribbled from his cracked lips and dropped like a gummy strand to the hearth piled with dried firewood. He didn’t even know how long he’d been unconscious.
They’d used heavy rope to tie him up from neck to knee against a wooden pole currently wedged in between the forked mouth of two heavy sticks buried in the ground. It was the usual manner animals were roasted universally—even the white men had roasted celebratory animals this way back at the plantation.
Okoi could barely move his neck, but it proved enough to see other similarly tied men in the clearing, but with a difference. The men were already dead, their skins currently bleeding oil over the sparking fire as they roasted, and no figurines surrounded their hearth.
He was robbed of breath when he noticed these differences. The hearth he hung over was unlit, he wasn’t dead, and even though the sky was quickly turning dark, he could make out the painted skulls and figurines surrounding his area. Even though he knew nothing about the culture, he was sure he was sacrificial. Having gone on enough evangelical treks with Samuel Ajayi Crowther around rural Onitsha, he’d experienced the traditional religion enough to recognize a sacrificial area.
Despite the tightly wound rope, Okoi began twisting his body in an attempt to escape the hopeless situation. Of all the rotten luck he could have, he’d fallen into the hands of cannibals. He really was cursed and destined to die. Who could have cursed him? Had his mother known he’d been cursed? Why hadn’t he been simply killed at birth instead of going through these challenges, coming out victorious and then finding himself in more difficult trials?
As tears of frustration dripped from his eyes onto the firewood, he accepted that this was the end; at least, he would finally be at peace.
Just then, loud drums sounded, and a cheer went up from a distance. The increasing clarity of the drums and the accompanying song alluded to the approaching crowd and certain death.
Though Okoi looked forward to finally having peace in a life that had only been turbulent thus far, his heart lurched to his throat and refused to go down. He was terrified and couldn’t breathe. Unconsciously, his body struggled against the tightly wound rope. He might have consciously accepted defeat, but his spirit was that of a fighter. Even without his brain, currently inundated with terror, he struggled, fought for a way.
Without meaning to, his lips moved, whispering words he’d forgotten; words that had been meaningless when the white missionaries had taught them to the newly freed slaves. It was a prayer to the white God, and he had just gotten to the part that said ‘but deliver us from evil’ when the painted face of the priest bent into his sight.
