The Ear, the Eye and the Arm (18 page)

"Would you like something to drink?" said Ear, throwing a towel over the heap of dirty dishes in the sink.

"You don't need to hide that from me," the Mellower said. "True creativity
thrives
on disorder, simply tucks in its roots and grows on chaos. I wouldn't say no to a sweet sherry."

So Ear rummaged around until he found a bottle sent over by Mr. Thirsty. It was a genuine bottle with a real cork, not the stuff the bartender usually ladled out of a washtub. The detectives didn't drink alcohol, but Arm said they had to encourage Mr. Thirsty's kind impulses, however misguided. The Mellower rolled the sherry around in his mouth and pronounced it quite the best he had tasted since an unfortunate accident overtook his wine cellar.

Arm hadn't been able to get out of bed since the terrible events on Dead Man's Vlei, but he found himself sitting up after only a few moments of Praise. Ear and Eye bent toward the Mellower like flowers to the sunlight. This was the first time any of them had been exposed to top-quality, state-of-the-art Mellowing, and it went straight to their heads.

The Praise Singer told them how kind, how brave and how intelligent they were. Arm, whose mind had been seared by the hatred of the
vlei
people, felt the scars drop off like so many bloated ticks. He was a wonderful creation, unique in all the city of Harare. He was one with his comrades, Ear and Eye. Together they saw into the heart of things. They were the true spirit mediums of the city. They did not, as spirit mediums usually did, take messages from the upper world to common humanity. Rather, they took the voices of the lowly and let them be heard on high.

Oh, it was heady stuff! It was almost too much sympathy for Arm after the bleak malice of Dead Man's Vlei, but it healed him.

At the same time, Arm saw into the mind of the Mellower. He didn't mean to, and he backed away at once. For only an instant he glimpsed, at the center of the man's weak-willed soul, a great kindness.

One thing disturbed him in spite of the wonderful healing: as long as the Mellower talked, Arm couldn't worry. He knew the She Elephant planned to sell the children to the Masks. He knew Tendai, Rita and Kuda were in deadly peril, but he didn't care. That was the effect Mellowers had on people. And perhaps, Arm thought, it was one of the reasons places like Dead Man's Vlei still existed.

When it was over, Eye sighed and Ear shook himself as though he had awakened from a lovely dream. Arm stretched out his long arms (which the Mellower had said were handsome) and murmured, "Why doesn't General Matsika offer a reward for the return of his children?"

"How clever of you to think of it," said the Praise Singer, holding his glass out for a refill. "Our General is a man of the law. He has to put the good of the city before his own needs. Children used to be snatched off the streets every day before he became Chief of Security, just for the ransom. He put a stop to that when he broke up the gangs. Now no one is allowed to pay money for the return of a kidnapped person. It's very hard for him to obey his own rules, but in the long run it's the right thing."

"And Matsika always does the right thing," said Arm. "An extraordinary man."

"Oh, he is. Now I simply must fly. Goodbye, you marvelous, courageous people. I hope I can Praise you again soon." And with that, the Mellower flitted out the door to the waiting limo.

Eighteen

"It's all right for you," said Rita tearfully. "You're a
boy.
You get to lie around listening to stories. I have to scrub the floor, wash clothes, sweep the courtyard and — and — air out the babies' bedding. It's so horrible! Why don't you ask for the holophone? Nobody listens to me."

Rita was hiding in a tiny clearing surrounded by thick bushes. She had a heap of appallingly dirty mats that Tendai assumed was the babies' bedding.

"They don't listen to me either. I've been trying for days," he whispered. By all the rules, he wasn't supposed to be with Rita. Boys his age didn't play with girls — or not until they began the housekeeping games that led up to marriage.

"They will
so.
I hear them talking: 'Oh, the new boy's so clever. Oh, he's a wonderful storyteller.' They think you're the greatest thing since fried mice. Did you
see
those poor little creatures that first night?"

"Our ancestors ate them, and we're not vegetarians," Tendai reminded her.

"Our ancestors ate them, but our ancestors'
wives
had to kill them. You should have heard their little squeaks."

"Don't," Tendai said.

"And speaking of wives, do you know how old Chipo is?
Fourteen!
And she's eight months' pregnant!"

"Keep your voice down."

"I'll keep my voice down if you keep your ears open. Myanda was Garikayi's first wife, but she couldn't have any children. The Spirit Medium said she might be a secret witch. He said witches eat their babies on the sly. Have you ever heard of anything so stupid?"

Tendai put his hand over Rita's mouth because her anger was making her reckless. The reek of the babies' bedding was overpowering in the airless thicket. He wanted to help her with the dirty mats, but that would certainly not be allowed. Tribal law was perfectly clear on that point: boys and girls had different duties, and unfortunately, the nastiest ones fell on the girls.

"All right, I'll keep my voice down," Rita whispered. "Garikayi married Chipo when she was only twelve, but she didn't get pregnant till now. You can bet he's anxious about it. He doesn't have any children. It's considered a disgrace."

And it was, in old tribal law. The Mellower had told them.

"Don't you wonder where Kuda and Trashman are?" asked Rita.

Tendai felt guilty. He had been so wrapped up in his own affairs, he had forgotten about them. He had assumed Kuda was with Myanda.

"They're at the opposite end of Resthaven," Rita said. "Chipo isn't allowed to look at Trashman, because it might affect her baby, and he won't go anywhere without Kuda."

"Trashman can't hurt her baby," said Tendai.

"Of course not, but you wouldn't believe the fuss they're making over her. She's loaded down with charms and rubbed with ointments. If she so much as opens her mouth, someone puts food in it. It's lucky Chipo's so good-natured or she'd be spoiled rotten."

"So what's the problem?" Tendai could hear the other boys in the distance, calling his name. He was supposed to be helping with the cattle.

"Who do you think they'll blame if something goes wrong with the birth?"

Tendai stared at her. The sun cast harsh bands of black shadow and bright light over Rita's face. He couldn't read her expression, but her voice told him she was deeply worried.

"This is a village," she said urgently. "No antibiotics. No doctors."

"Women survived for thousands of years without them."

"Some
of the women, you stupid boy. Oh, why do I even bother to explain? Chipo's too young! You may be in love with traditional life, but women and babies used to die in those wonderful old-fashioned villages."

The boys' voices were nearer now. Tendai would have to go soon if he wanted to keep Rita out of trouble.

"And think about
this:
I'm loaded with all kinds of work except one. They won't let me near the food. And you have to eat out of special bowls that no one else will touch. Do you understand?"

"Witchcraft," breathed Tendai.

"You said it. Witches put things in people's food. None of them will really trust us until the Spirit Medium says we don't have witch blood in the family. And he won't do that until Chipo has her baby."

The boys passed by the thicket, calling for Tendai. He let them go on. "I'll make a plan," he whispered, although he had not the slightest idea what to do.

"Get us out of here,” began Rita, but Tendai stepped quickly out of the thicket and ran after the boys.

"There you are," said Hodza, a handsome boy of Tendai's age but of a frailer build. He was one of Garikayi's nephews, as was everyone Tendai met in the boys' hut.

"You may be new, but you can't get out of work," called another youth, named Banga. He was the largest and brawniest of the boys and seemed to be their leader. The group joked and chattered as they went toward the meadow where the cattle grazed. The boys were greatly awed by Tendai's storytelling ability as well as the possibility that he might be a spirit medium someday.

At night, in the boys' hut, they begged him for tales. "You'd be a better medium than the one we have," whispered Hodza, as they all sat around on mats. The mats smelled faintly of ammonia for reasons Tendai didn't care to imagine.

"Quiet," said Banga.
"He
might hear you."

"He's not a witch. The owls don't carry him messages." But Hodza didn't mention the Spirit Medium again.

"Speaking of witches," another boy said, and proceeded to tell a gruesome story about
 
someone
 
who
 
wrapped
 
herself in other people's skins.

After a while, the big boys had to wake up the little ones and march them outside to urinate. Hodza imitated an owl and the little boys screamed. Myanda yelled at them to be quiet.

Tendai remembered the boys' hut as they walked down to the meadow. He had never been surrounded by friends of his own age, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. So what if Rita was having a hard time? "She's like Granny," he told himself. "She'll complain no matter where she is." But a picture of her sitting in the hot thicket surrounded by the babies' bedding spoiled his pleasure.

"Do you know where the holophone is?" he asked Hodza.

"The what?"

"You know. It's a screen with a three-dimensional picture in it. You say the number, and the operator dials it for you." But Tendai might have been talking Tibetan for all Hodza understood. "Well, what about the police? How do you call them?"

"What are police?" said Hodza.

"They keep law and order. They arrest criminals."

"When anything goes wrong, we have a village council," Hodza said. "The elders discuss the problem, and if they can't work it out, they ask the Spirit Medium. He's in direct contact with the ancestors."

Great, thought Tendai. Dial-an-ancestor. A service provided by your friendly holophone company. "Maybe you don't have things like that here," he went on, "but surely you know they exist outside the wall?"

"What wall?" said Hodza.

"He means the edge of the world," Banga explained. "Outside is
Mwari's
country."

"What do you think is in
Mwari's
country?" said Tendai, who was beginning to lose patience with the whole argument.

The boys looked at one another as though the question had never occurred to them. "Who cares?" Banga said. "When we need more people,
Mwari
sends them to us. Sometimes they work out and sometimes not. Myanda did fine, except she doesn't have any children."

"That's because she's a witch," remarked a boy.

"That's ridiculous," said Hodza.

"We don't know anything about her family."

The argument went on about whether Myanda was a witch or merely unlucky, and Tendai realized it was useless to expect help from the boys. Not only were they ignorant about what lay outside, they weren't even curious.

The cows raised their heads and watched the boys come down to the meadow. A gang of seven- to nine-year-olds threw down their switches and greeted them. "About time," grumbled the leader of the smaller boys. They trooped off, and the older children took their places on the rocks.

Nineteen

The cattle went about the business of feeding, while a few goats milled among them. A pair of young billies butted each other with their horns, but most of the time the animals were perfectly orderly. And boring, Tendai decided. He was given a switch to drive the animals from vegetable gardens, should they be tempted. They never were.

The meadow was full of foxtail and whisk and couch and many other kinds of grass Tendai didn't recognize. Up the sides of the valley grew thick stands of thatching grass. It was woody and not attractive to the cattle. Tendai knew it would be harvested to mend the roofs of the huts.