The Scarlet Crane: Transition Magic Book One (The Transition Magic Series 1) (9 page)

Ituri Forest

The Democratic Republic of the Congo

The boys sat on the smooth, reddish-brown arm of a massive fig tree, entranced by the scene unfolding twenty feet below. The men of their camp were stringing a waist-high net two hundred paces along the rainforest floor for the day’s first hunt. Isa Njikali and the adolescent age-mates of his Bambuti pygmy tribe usually spent the day gathering food. This was the first hunt they’d been permitted to witness.

When Isa had awakened two days earlier, his friends had pointed at his face and danced with joy. They pulled him to the river, singing, speaking to the trees. He gazed at the surface of the calm water. His eyes had changed overnight from dark brown to glowing
samawati
, the color of the late-day sky, seen only in the eyes of a boy or girl ready to undergo the
nkumbi
ritual and become an adult.

Isa had told no one, but he was going to use
samawati
magic to save
the sacred
Forest
from destruction.

The hunters finished tugging the coarse brown
liana
net into a long arc. One of the men pointed up at Isa and swept his arm toward the Forest. “Go tell them,” he called.

Isa climbed down the grid of vines that wrapped the fig’s trunk and ran through the cool morning air of the rainforest for a quarter mile, arriving breathlessly where five women had gathered.

“They’re ready.” He pointed toward the center of the arc formed by the net, turned, scurried back to his friends, and climbed up to his perch again. He gazed down at the net, barely perceptible in the dim Forest light. The hunters had hidden behind trees and the few shrubs that tolerated the perpetual shadows.

Birds sang in the canopy high above, and insects buzzed around his head. Then came a steadily rising chorus from the deep woods. The women’s song, punctuated by their sharp clapping, would startle antelope into the waiting trap.

Suddenly an adult gray antelope, hardly bigger than the camp’s dogs, bounded from the trees and lunged into the
liana
barrier, legs entangled.

“Whoop!” The hunters leaped to kill the animal with their iron-tipped spears, dragged it from the net, and hid once again. The song’s din escalated, driving birds from the canopy. Minutes later, another antelope broke from the undergrowth, leaping over the net. A hunter jumped from behind a tree and drove his spear into the animal’s neck. Another hunter jumped on its back, wrestled it to the ground, and held fast until its struggles ceased. Again they hid. The women began to emerge from the Forest, marching toward the net. A third antelope broke from the last bit of cover, jumped left, right, then headlong into the vine barrier, and was killed.

The women ceased singing, their silence as sharp as their song.

Isa and his age-mates climbed down the tree and sang thanks to Muungu, the most sacred of the Forest gods. The men and women worked together to divide the carcasses.

After they finished carving, one of the women—Mother Toure—stood, took two long poles from one of the men, and pointed for one of the other women to move behind her. The two rested the poles between them on their shoulders. The men hung the three butchered antelope on the poles and gave each woman a woven basket filled with the heads and guts.

Mother Toure looked at the youths and held out her basket. The other woman did the same. “Go with us to the camp and then return to your work.” Isa took one of the baskets and got behind the women. Zaire, his best friend, took the other and lined up behind Isa. The other youths followed, completing the procession for the hike back to the camp.

The meat was as valuable for trade as it was for food. The band would keep the hind legs from one of the antelope and barter with the remainder of the kill. The prized heads would be cleaned in the nearby river, cooked over the camp’s fire, and shared as a delicacy. Even the dogs would celebrate, feasting on the entrails.

As they turned to leave, the men began to move the net to a different part of the Forest, where the antelope remained undisturbed. They and the remaining women would hunt as long as there was light.

* * *

Mother Toure led them around the giant trees of the rainforest. The youths sang with the women, swaying to the rhythm of their words, talking to the antelope, to the trees.

Isa shifted his basket from one hip to another, his arms tiring. His mind overflowed with dreams of
samawati
magic.

He interrupted the singing. “Mother Toure, will the
nkumbi
be held in our camp?” All adult women were Mother to the camp’s children and all adult men were Father. Isa believed Mother Toure knew everything.

She giggled at the silliness of his question. “
Nkumbi
will be where you are, child.”

“I am ready, Mother Toure.”

“I have seen your eyes, Isa. Everyone has. The Elders sent runners to the other bands to learn how many of their youths have
samawati
eyes. They’ll decide about
nkumbi
and then you will know.” He heard the smile in her answer.

“Yes, Mother.”

Their song resumed. Isa’s mind drifted to the rains that had pushed the Ituri into the Forest six circles of the moon ago, when his people had to flee from the raging water during the night. The women said it was an ill omen, that Muungu was troubled. The next day, two Bantu men had come to their new camp bearing a strange and terrifying tale. A Bantu Elder stood before the fire and called for all to come hear him. Young and old had gathered around.

“Important men of the Bakongo tribe traveled the rivers from Mombasa to our village.”

Rarely did the Bakongo visit the Forest. What did this mean?

One of the Mothers addressed the Bantu Elder, her voice raised above the swelling wave of concern. “The Bakongo journeyed far.” It was not polite to ask why they came from such an unimaginably distant place.

The Elder didn’t need to be asked. “They tell of a road being built through the forest so trees can be carried away on the river.”

The band laughed and mocked him. “How could a man move a tree?”

“They bring with them giant iron beasts that cut a tree like the Bambuti cuts the neck of an antelope. The Bakongo say the Bambuti will leave the forest and live with the Bantu.”

They argued late into the darkness. Some decided the Bantu were drunk and not to be trusted. Most, like Mother Toure, felt the truth of their story and were profoundly saddened. It was then Isa vowed to use his
samawati
magic to stop the evil and save the Forest.

A root grabbed Isa’s ankle and jerked him back to the present. Zaire, behind him, snorted at his friend’s clumsiness. Isa was saved from further embarrassment by their arrival at their camp. The twenty in Isa’s band shared seven huts made from bent saplings covered with large
mongongo
leaves.

Four Bantu tribesmen were sitting around the fire in the center of the camp, along with Father Abulengu, who—lazy, often drunk—had not joined the morning hunt. The Bantu chittered with excitement when they spied the three antelope.

Zaire asked, “Mother Toure, may we watch you trade the meat?”

“No, you’ve been away from your work too—”

Abulengu stood and interrupted her. “Mother, the Bantu will barter with me today, not you. Return to the hunt.”

Toure burst out laughing. “One of the babies would barter better than you.” The women in the camp whooped, pointed at Abulengu and shook their heads, scorning him.

“I will get more from the Bantu than you. Leave now.”

Mother Toure’s jeering grew. “Fah! You would give the meat away for cigarettes and liquor for yourself. The band would get nothing.” The two women dropped the meat to the ground and stood in front of it, arms crossed. “Shoo!”

The laughter of the other women in the camp increased. They picked up small stones and tossed them at Abulengu’s feet. He skipped to avoid the rocks, stared at Mother Toure for a moment, shrugged to the Bantu, and fled the camp.

Toure directed her attention to the youths. “Go gather food.” She looked at Isa. “Elder Ballo will begin your instruction for
nkumbi
when you return.”

* * *

The youths grabbed empty baskets and ran into the Forest, giggling at the dispute and its outcome.

“I’m thirsty,” Zaire said. “Let’s get water before we start.”

They each tore a large leaf from a nearby shrub and scampered to the bank of the glassy river near the camp. Each boy rolled his leaf into a funnel and pinched the bottom shut. They dipped the green cups into the stream and drank until their bellies were as distended as a pregnant woman’s. Zaire belched so loudly that he drove birds from the canopy, which led to a spontaneous game of bigger and funnier belches, ending with them rolling on the ground in near hysterics.

They moved into the trees, collecting fruit, nuts, mushrooms, and large, juicy caterpillars. Each day they had to search farther to gather enough for the camp.

Shafts of shimmering gold sunlight brightened the shade of the forest floor around a fallen tree. Water still dripped from the morning dew; the air smelled wet and green.

“One of the Bantu told me many youths die during
nkumbi
,” Zaire said. “The
samawati
magic goes bad and they die.”

“My magic won’t be bad,” Isa said.

“What about those with
samawati
eyes who’ve left camp and not returned? Maybe they died.”

Isa scowled. “Who knows? Getting my
dhakari
cut is scarier than
samawati
magic.”

One of the others picked up a short stick, mimed a slicing motion, and broke the stick into shorter and shorter pieces. Zaire and the others pointed at Isa’s loincloth and howled.

Isa picked up a stick shorter than his small finger and flicked it at Zaire. “At least my
dhakari
is bigger than your twig.” He pounded Zaire on the back. Zaire laughed, tackled Isa, and rubbed dirty wet leaves in his face. The others shrieked and threw dirt and sticks at both of them. Isa tossed Zaire to the side. He climbed to his feet, smiling, and wiped his face. “Enough.” He led them deeper into the Forest.

They returned to the camp in late afternoon, their baskets filled. A Mother told them that the Forest had provided no more antelope after the morning’s first hunt. The Bantu had tired of waiting and left for their own village. They would return the next sun with the yams, beans, and a new metal pot they’d agreed to exchange for the meat. Isa was happy that the Bantu preferred to trade for meat rather than hunt. The yams were better than anything in the forest, except for honey. Nothing was better than honey.

He sought out Mother Toure. “Will we move for better hunting?” They had been in the same camp for more than one circle of the moon. He worried that a new camp would delay the
nkumbi.

Mother Toure pointed to the baskets he and the others had gathered. “All this and three antelope for trade. We stay until the Forest tells us to move.” She reached out, touched him gently near the corner of each eye, and scrubbed his head. “Elder Ballo waits for you by the giant umbrella tree next to the river. Go.”

* * *

The Elder sat cross-legged under the umbrella tree, weaving a basket. A skinning knife, a curled sheet of fig tree bark, and a small finished basket lay by his side. His hair was as white as the clouds, his skin the dark color of wet earth instead of the red-brown of the young. He patted the ground for Isa to join him. Isa sat, silent, listening to the slithering stream and the monkeys overhead.

In a voice so soft that Isa had to lean forward to hear him, Elder Ballo said, “As it has been since time forgotten,
samawati
eyes signify that Bambuti youth are ready for passage; boys through
nkumbi
, girls through
lliama
. I am the oldest Father in our camp and will prepare you for the ritual.”

“Thank you, Elder.”

“Answer this question, child—do you believe that you will be an adult after
nkumbi
?”

“Yes, Elder.”

“
True, and not true, Isa
. Nkumbi
is only part of being an adult. It is one camp on a long path through the Forest. Other camps on the path are taking a wife, killing your first antelope, having a child.”

Isa thought about this for several minutes. “If this is so, when will I be an adult?”

“When others see you as adult. If others see you as a youth, you are still a youth, no matter how many antelopes you’ve killed or children you have. Do you understand?”

Isa considered what he’d been told. “Is Abulengu a youth?”

The Elder smiled. “Often. Are you ready for your instruction?”

“Yes.”

“You may only speak of
nkumbi
with me and adults in our band. Speaking with others would bring evil magic to our people and you would forever be a youth. Do you vow to remain silent?”