Chapter 18

“I have left Gomoro in temporary charge as Assistant Chief. When I return, I will assess his performance and if I am happy with it, I will hand over governance of the tribe to him. I should be away for some days; the exact number of days is uncertain as it depends on my duties elsewhere.”

He turned and departed without giving the elders a chance to comment. He was declaring his control and that was that. He collected Travana and Bravura and departed back to his original cave.

On the trackway, once John was certain that there were no predators within hearing he got back to thinking ahead. The first task was to go cut down the coastal mahogany trees and leave them for collection by the northerners sometime. He next had to visit the Shaman leader to show him the error of his ways. He was surprised that his previous shaman visitors, Relinka and his colleagues, had not told the leading Shaman that they knew who and where John was. He suspected that their silence was intended to prevent the Leading Shaman from starting some magical war that would not end well. He hoped his surmise was accurate. Perhaps as a precaution he should take a few warrior guards with him, and arm them with his own ‘magical’ weapons, depending on what was to be found in the storeroom.

They stopped for the night at the campsite they used last time, then made a short visit to the Farfarers to notify Chief Maranaga that they were heading back to Numa’s cave. From the Farfarers, they headed home.

Home was a misnomer in many ways, and quite correct in others. Home was where he grew up, yet home was also where he lived in the States, and then it became where the new John’s tribe was formed. If he was Chief of the Mountain tribe, then officially that was home for him. When he visited the Farfarers and slept with his wife, Chief Maranga, that was home at that time. John decided that home was wherever he felt comfortable being, a sort of moveable feast in religious terms.

Certainly he had more wives in Chief Numa’s tribe than anywhere else. He had genuinely lost track of the number of wives in his family. How the hell was he going to remember all his children and which child belonged to which mother? In some ways it was better for him to be absent on duty tasks than to be around where each of the women vied for his sexual favours.

Thinking of this, John reminded himself he had some mahogany trees to fell, and then a Leading Shaman to be remonstrated with. The first priority was to establish how many fully charged batteries were available for the tree felling before he set off.

He enquired, and was told by Vickie that both solar chargers had been in use throughout the last few days, and all the drained packs had been recharged to the fully charged level. The biggest challenge would be the weight to be carried, for batteries of that size were heavy, notwithstanding their claim to be ‘lightweight’. Lightweight was a comparative term, not a description of true mass.

When he told Chief Numa of his need to fell more trees, she disputed the quest.

“John, these trees will stand until you get around to cutting them down. The shipbuilders are not desperate for wood, or they would be pressuring you for the supplies. Is that not so?”

He grudgingly accepted, “I suppose that is so, but once they are down and trimmed of branches, that makes them ready for collection whenever the traders come for them.I don’t want to have to rush around cutting down trees while they wait for me to get it done.”

“What about this Shaman leader that is demanding you fit in with his rules as a Shaman? Is that not a more pressing question? You can’t depend on your Shaman friends staying silent for ever. There are pressures on them as well.”

“But they could wait a few more days until I get the trees done,” he almost begged.

Numa was not mollified. “If the shipbuilders are desperate, the fisher tribe can give them their three trees, and the buyers can wait for your other three later.”

Seeing the way the wind was blowing, John gave in.

“Okay, I’ll go see the Leading Shaman first. If I hurry, I can be there by tomorrow sometime, if the route plan given to me by the Mountain tribe’s Shaman is accurate.”

That settled, the question was whether John would go alone or with a warrior guard. He wanted it to be on his own, but Numa was more cautious.

“You have abilities, it is true, but mostly you work with guile. When it comes to physical force, you are just one man. Take three of our better warriors, and arm them with powerful weapons. They should not use them if there is no force attempted against you, but if you need their help, that should be overwhelming. I am told by Jean that your weapons store contains what she calls semi-automatic rifles, that shoot many small missiles at high speed such as no-one can protect themselves against the missiles. She has trained several warriors in their use while you were at the Mountain tribe, and feels that Feelia and Deelia will work well with you and her. They are committed to you and want to strike back at men who deserve to be killed. They are scared of the noise of the rifle, but have mastered their fear and will use the rifles if and when needed, Jean says. She will give them womanly support. They will carry their own rifles, but you will carry the ammunition for them, as it is a heavy box.”

John asked, “Can we instead use a bi-cycle to carry the weight of the rifles and ammunition? I can push it, giving the ladies a chance to march with just a spear. My crossbow can be loaded on the cycle as well, and I can walk beside it, same as them.”

Using a basic bi-cycle, Raka readily affixed a long basket on top of the centrally-placed seat, so that the rifles, ammunition box, and crossbow sat inside. With this transport contraption, they could walk at a brisk pace with the women wielding their spears, knives fastened to their belts, while John concentrated to wheeling along the heavier items.

He recalled the directions he had been given, and knowing one of the tribes involved, he started by heading for that tribe’s location. They got there before nightfall, and were welcomed as friends from a neighbouring tribe. John handed over a bar of soap in payment for their evening meal and breakfast, then they spent the night in a hut normally devoted to storage, cuddled together for the comfort and warmth during the night’s drop in temperature.

The next day was a succession of links from one tribe to another, getting ever closer to their destination. When they were at the penultimate stop, they rested early, so that they could be up sharp in the morning. Bidding farewell to the tribe, they left for their final destination.

John had discussed their plans on the way south, and the women had agreed to act as women were expected to be in this world: following their male leader, until and when the situation demanded their intervention. They were female warriors acting as a ceremonial guard and that was all, as far as everyone else was concerned. They did take their automatic rifles and sling them over their shoulders for the last few minutes of their journey, for the rifles were to appear part of their regalia.

They walked through the tribal entrance during mid-morning, and were greeted in surprise by a male guard standing lazily there.

“Who are you folk and what do you want?” he demanded of John, as if it was his right of challenge.

“Shaman John, here with my entourage. I was delayed in getting to the meeting. Please convey my apologies to the host.”

“Eh? That meeting was several days ago and is over. All the shamans have gone home.”

“Dear me,” said John, appearing put out by this news. “I had better give our leader my apologies for the lateness of my arrival.”

“Uh ... that would be Shaman Primo, if you didn’t hear his name.”

“His name was imparted by another Shaman, and his responsibilities as our leader, but I was given no description.”

“He is hard to miss. He is tall and thin, bearded, with a bald patch on the front of his head, and wears special clothing with many beads to show his status as a leader. I will lead you to him.”

John appeared surprised.

“You need lots of beads to show you are a leader? The Chief of our tribe has no beads on his clothing, but he is still our leader.”

“That may be the way of things for a Chief, but a Leading Shaman has to show his power.”

“Ah. He is a man of power, then, unlike most Shamans I know.”

“That is the way of things, Shaman John.”

A minute later, he stopped in front of a hut with ornate symbols daubed on the exterior walls.

“Leading Shaman Primo? A visitor for you.”

He stood back and waited for the Shaman to appear. When the man stepped outside, adjusting a large and ornate necklace of many rows of beads made from seeds, the guard declared, “Shaman John to meet Leading Shaman Primo.”

Primo peered at John, leaning on his odd-looking contrivance and escorted by spear-toting females with their own ornate devices hanging from their shoulders. The Leading Shaman decided he needed something similar for a display of power.

“And who is Shaman John? Did you not hear about the meeting some days ago?”

John lifted his hands and spread them nonchalantly.

“I was away when the messenger arrived. When I returned, I was told about the meeting, and so here I am.”

“You are too late. The meeting is over.”

“Really? I expected there would be discussion covering several days about shamanic matters affecting us all.”

“No. There was only one matter for discussion: a mysterious shaman who was disobeying the rules and must be brought in line with the rest of us.”

“My goodness! As serious as that? Which rules was he disobeying?”

“He was failing to use the prescribed chants and spells invoking the power of the spirits, and using new potions and treatments without authorisation.”

“My, my! Tell me, Leading Shaman Primo, how do you know that the spirits pay attention to the spells and chants?”

“Don’t be silly, man! Everyone knows how important these incantations are to make the magic effective. As a professed shaman, you ought to know that.”

“My apologies, Leading Shaman Primo, but I am merely a recent shaman, appointed to the exalted position by my tribe. My magic seems to work perfectly well without any chants or spells. I wonder if you can explain that to me, as an amateur?”

Primo spluttered, “An amateur? A tribe that allows an amateur to do the job? You are being permitted a measure of luck by the Earth Mother before she brings you down to earth with a bump.”

John ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin, in apparent thought.

“Now that is a surprise! My magic appears to becoming stronger and stronger as the days go on. I was even consulted by one of the Chiefs of the Invader army for a while, due to my reputation as a man of great magic.”

“You! You must be the one I was warning against!”

John nodded sanguinely.

“You may be right, Leading Shaman Primo. It rather undermines the power of other Shamans if magic is shown to work without chanting, but I look upon it as beneficial, if tribes see my magic as good when there is no fear involved. The spells and chants always seem to imply some kind of threat if they should not be performed. When the magic works without any chanting, that magic is accepted as right and proper for the benefit of the tribe, not for the benefit of the Shaman alone.

That is how it has worked for me, I have to tell you. If something is good for a tribe, that should be sufficient in itself.”

Primo stared as John.

“You are impertinent, young man. I should place an illness curse on you for your misbehaviour if I hear any more your insults.”

“A threat? The answer to the undermining of your assumed power is threat; the only response you can find?”

“You have been warned. I will not repeat myself.”

“Fine,” said John equably. “Go ahead: place your chant, and see if it does anything. Have you never noticed that your chants are merely a flowery topping to what you actually do; if you can actually do anything at all? What is your rate of success with your magic? Have you ever measured the number of times a mere chant achieves something? Is all you can offer merely wordy incantations followed by tricks?”

“Tricks? A true Shaman does not do tricks!”

“I do. I like doing tricks, for amusement. For example, moving the end of my thumb away from the base and then back.” John demonstrated with the old thumb trick that always mystified small children.

Primo gaped at the apparent magic.

“How did you do that?”

John smiled, and showed him the way you could apparently split a thumb in two and restore it again.

Primo declared, “You didn’t do anything with the thumb! You didn’t split it apart.”

“So?” said John. “I told you it was a trick; didn’t I? Didn’t you hear me say so?”

The man frowned. “What was the point of that trick, then?”

John told him, “The point was that any trick can be perceived as magic, if the watchers don’t know it is a trick. Most Shamans use tricks on their audience, to amuse them and awe them. My real magic involves no tricks whatsoever, just improvements in knowledge and understanding of how things work.”

“This is all diversion; another trick. You are just trying to distract me, young man. Are you going to obey your leader or not?”

“Primo, I don’t think you have been listening to me. I see no future in granting you any level of respect, for what you do as leader is quite simply a trick played on other Shamans. You have no power, merely bluster.”

“I have had enough. Guard! Throw this amateur Shaman out of the tribe.”

Ptimo turned and marched back to his hut, apparently dismissing John.

The guard, who had been standing well back, out of the way of any loose magic that might be thrown about, shrugged his shoulders at the disappointing lack of fire between the two, and stepped forward towards John. John handed the bi-cycle to Jean with a sigh, and turned back to the guard, his hands empty.

“You don’t want to annoy me, guard. You could get hurt.”

“Without a weapon? Don’t be daft!”

He charged at John with his spear held by his side. John stood still, with his feet slightly apart for stability, and as the spear came towards him, turned to one side and brought his closed fist down on the spear head. This pushed it downward and the guard’s momentum brought it into the ground and the guard toppled forward, losing his grip on the halted spear, and falling forward onto the packed earth with a grunt of pain.

John pulled the guard’s spear out of the ground, and handed it to Jean.

“Hold this please, my dear,” he said, and resumed confronting the guard who was pulling himself to his feet, in a fury at being made to appear a fool.

John said mildly, “I told you not to annoy me. You could get hurt, little boy.”

This insult infuriated the guard, as John intended, and he rushed at John, arms extended. This time John stepped in closer as the man arrived, unexpectedly bent down and levered the man from his midriff so that his rush turned into a spinning vertical throw ending with him flat on his back, groaning at the pain in his muscles.

John stood back and commented, “My apologies for the pain, but I said you could get hurt. You were not listening very well, were you?”

He stepped forward and offered the guard a hand to help him stand up.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too much, my friend. It was not my intention. I have no wish to have a reputation for killing people. I teach my warriors to try not to kill unless necessary.”

He waved a hand at the three women.

“These ladies could best any of your tribe’s warriors; I kid you not.”

The aching guard looked at them with disdain. “Women?”

John told him, “Don’t regard them as women; regard them as warriors. It is less dangerous to you that way.”

The guard looked at John in despair.

“You are trying to tell me that a woman is more dangerous than a warrior?”

“No. It is matter of perception; knowing what you are looking at: the ability and training, not the shape. If you look at a warrior, you hope to be able to defeat him. If you see only a woman, you are lost. My female warriors that make up my ceremonial guard are more powerful than whole bands of your guards. Don’t test them, my friend: you have been warned for the last time.”

By this time, the guard was ready to believe anything. He effectively gave up resisting, mentally.

“I won’t try. You are truly a warrior as well as a great Shaman, Shaman John. Even Leading Shaman Primo is scared of you; I could tell by his reaction.”

The guard suddenly recoiled in terror. John whirled, to find Primo bearing down on him with a heavy club swinging, screaming, “Die, unbeliever!”

John only had time to throw himself to one side, and the club just grazed his shoulder, agonisingly tearing his skin. As the pain shot through him, John thought his end had come, but there was a loud explosion, and Primo shuddered to a halt, dead with a bullet through his body, but still on his feet for a second.

He collapsed onto the ground and his club thudded down beside him. John grabbed at his injured shoulder to hold the skin in place as best he could, in shock with the pain that was shooting through his arm. He curled into a ball, holding himself together but unaware of what was going on around him, and lost consciousness.

The guard stared at the avenging woman standing there holding her mysterious and magical device smoking between her hands. She swung it towards the guard, who shrieked, “I didn’t do anything!”

She halted and lifted the device towards the sky, then spoke.

“Ladies, see to the High Chief!”

The other two women rushed to give aid to Shaman John, one of them whipping some object out of a pouch at her side and applying it to Shaman John’s injury, covering it entirely in the material. Once the wound was covered, the woman with the magical weapon leaned down to examine the wounded man.

Satisfied, she declared, “The nanites will do the rest. Get John into a hut and lay him down to rest, then as soon as he is conscious, give him food and water to feed the nanites.”

The two women made a final visual check round the site to ensure that no further danger was threatening, then slung their devices over their shoulders and dragged John by his good arm and his legs into Primo’s hut. They found him a bed of furs and laid him down, covering his body with another fur. Once they had done so, they checked the inside of the hut for any type of threat to him or themselves. Two other piles of fur bedding were occupied by sleeping figures that had not stirred despite all the noise.

Puzzled at this, the warriors pulled back the covering furs and revealed naked women, their small stature indicating teenagers. One called out, “Jean! We need you to explain this.”

Jean told the guard, “Stay here and don’t move except to breathe.”

She walked into the hut and demanded, “What?”

“Two teenage women, alive but not moving. Is it a magical spell or what?”

Jean went over to look at them, then demanded some light. A lit brand from the fire was carried over to shed some illumination. Jean lifted the eyelids and looked at the pupils of the young woman.

She announced, “Looks like she is drugged. Probably the other is also. Leave them until they wake up, for we have no idea what drug was used. Am I wrong, or are their hands and feet tied?”

The other warrior, Deelia, swiftly used her knife to cut the bonds off, then did the same for the second teenager.

“All freed, Jean.”

Jean stood again, took a quick look over at John, then marched outside. Going over to the guard, she ordered, “Your job for now is to stand guard over this hut, protecting it and its occupants. Let me know if anyone moves or cries out. Got that? Feelia and Deelia will be guarding the inside.”

“Yes, sir ... um ... miss.”

“The name is Jean, wife of High Chief John. If any harm comes to him while I am away, you die, understand?”

“Yes, mistress High Chief John.”

“I need to find if this tribe has a herbalist that supplies drugs to such as the deceased Primo. Is there such a person?”

“Yes, mistress. The wise woman Aria; she knows about herbs.”

“Where do I find her?”

“Four fingers of huts to the left, Mistress High Chief.”

Jean marched down to the indicated hut and called out, “Hullo inside! Is there a Wise woman named Aria in here that knows herbs?”

In a few moments, a tired-looking woman dragged herself to the doorway and said, “I am Aria, the Wise Woman of this tribe. Who are you and what do you want? I was sleeping soundly.”

“This is not a time to sleep. Pay attention! Leading Shaman Primo attacked my husband and injured him, so I killed Primo. My husband is in the shaman’s hut, to recover from Primo’s attack, but there are two teenage women in there, lying in a drugged state. Is this your doing?”

“Not my doing; I merely provided the potions to Primo. He demanded them, with threats if I failed to give them to him.”

“As I would have expected of a bully. In that case, what do the drugs do, and will they wear off by themselves or do we need another drug to counteract the first drug?”

“It is a simple sleeping potion. They will sleep for less than half a day after taking the drug, then wake up normally. Do you want them moved out of your way? Did you say you killed Primo? You? A woman?”

“Yes, I killed him. I am a warrior, among other things, and he tried to kill my husband, so Primo deserved to die, and I obliged him. That is all. What about these two women? Who are they and what are they doing in there?”

“I don’t know their names. They were brought here yesterday by another Shaman, given as a gift to Leading Shaman Primo. They were very unruly, having been not long captured, and Primo wanted them quietened until he had the time to play with them, he said. When did he give them the potion?”

“How would I know? We have only just found them, Aria.”

“Then you simply have to wait until the potion wears off. Who are you anyway, so-called warrior woman?”

“My name is Jean, one of the wives of High Chief John who came here to advise Primo of the error of his ways. Primo did not take kindly to the telling. Like any bully, he resorted to violence; a fatal mistake on his part. Was Primo married, do you know?”

“His wife died several years ago. His power that he brags about was unable to save her. He indulges himself with one or two of the women of this tribe when he can. Most are too scared to refuse his attentions. I have never let him touch me or my woman. He knows – knew – not to incur my wrath with my own herbal powers.”

“Your woman. I see. You are a woman who prefers women to men. Some do.”

“You don’t seem bothered by the idea.”

“Nope. We had a few of those back in my home land, so I expect every society has some like that. I have no objection to what constitutes a family group.”

“If your husband is injured, do you want me to attend to him?”

“Good grief, no! John has his own means of recovery. His internal magic will heal him; he is a Shaman, after all.”

“I thought you said he was a High Chief, whatever that is.”

“John is a lot of things, a Shaman for two tribes among them; but his post as High Chief gives him prime advisory status over three tribes that have their own Chiefs. They are all applying gender equality, among other improvements.”

“Gender equality? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Men and woman are treated equally, so they can all take up whatever trade they have the ability and aptitude for. The other two women who came with me as John’s ceremonial guard: they are warriors as well as their other talents. Oh, part of gender equality is that a woman can decide whether she wants a man to become her husband or not; it is not just his choice. John insisted on that, nice man that he is.”

“So can I go back to sleep now?”

“Of course, now that I have the information I needed. Sleep well.”

Jean stepped out again, to be greeted by another man.

“What have we here? A visitor? Who are you with?”

“I am here with my husband, who was injured by the late Primo. I was consulting with your Wise Woman about another matter. Who are you, if I may ask?”

“I am Toromoro, Chief of this tribe. The late Primo, you said? Has he died, succumbed to his own magic, perhaps?”

“You could say that. He died after attacking my husband, as I was telling Aria.”

“Your husband killed him? He must be a great Shaman.”

“He is, but he didn’t kill Primo. I did that execution. Nobody attacks my man and gets away with it.”

“You are claiming that you, a woman, killed the Leading Shaman and got away with it?”

“I am not claiming anything. I just killed him before he could kill John.”

“But women are not warriors!”

“They are in our tribe. The other two women who came with us are both warriors.”

“How odd. Where do you come from?”

“Numa’s tribe. Chief Numa insisted we come with John, for his protection.”

“Numa is a female name. Is it not?”

“She certainly is. She had a baby recently, so definitely not a man; much tougher.”

“A woman Chief?”

“I just said that, didn’t I? Doesn’t anyone here listen to what is said? Now, please excuse me, but I have to get back to what was Primo’s hut.”

“You are a bit uppity for a mere woman.”

“No. I am perfectly normal, looking after my man. The other two warriors; now, they are uppity and would quite gladly kill a man that came up against them. They have revenge in their hearts, having once been abducted. John rescued them, so they are protective of him.”

“Oh. Should I come along and extend my welcome to our tribe?”

“Primo’s welcome was not very encouraging, but if you want to, come and say hello to High Chief John, which is one of his titles. He is Shaman to two tribes, Chief to a third, and is also High Chief for the three. He is a busy man, is my John.”

“But injured, you say?”

“Yes, but his magic will cure him, given time. He has a reputation as a great healer. Come along then, Chief.”

“Uh, I heard that Primo was given two women yesterday.”

“Yes, we found them, tied up and drugged. We cut their bonds and have to wait until they wake, before taking them home.”

“Home?”

“Yes. We don’t yet know where.”

“But if your Shaman killed Primo, they belong to him.”

“Chief, I killed him; I told you. Nobody ever listens!”

“But a woman can’t own women by right of defeat!”

“Then they are not owned at all, by your own logic. We can take them home.”

The bemused Chief offered, “I don’t think their tribe will take them back, dear lady. They were taken by force, so are gone, now belonging to whoever took them, then to Primo, and now to you, or to your husband, I suppose it would have to be, to fit with tradition.”

“Chief, you have to get over this ownership idea, from your out-dated traditions. In our tribes, women are not owned, just as men are not owned. Why do you think we have women warriors and a woman Chief in two of our tribes?”

“No ownership at all? What about slaves?”

“We don’t have slaves either. When any of us rescue slaves, we release them to be themselves. Some of them decide to join our tribe; others go home to their original tribe. It is up to them; it is called freedom.”

“How peculiar!”

“Nothing peculiar about it. Would you be pleased to be a slave, or to be owned by your wife?”

“That is a new and unsettling way of looking at life. Now, this is the hut. Will you introduce me?”

“Certainly. Toromoro was the name, I think?”

“It is.”

The guard stepped to one side when the Chief arrived with Jean leading. The Chief raised an eyebrow at the guard acting for the visitors, but said nothing. Jean explained, “John taught this guard some new moves on how to disarm an apponent. He appreciated the lesson, and is helping us a little.”

The guard allowed himself a grateful smile at her, impressing the Chief more.

She stepped inside. “How is John doing, ladies?”

“He is conscious again, Jean, and is able to talk, though still sore.”

“I should have asked for a painkiller from the herbalist, but I forgot. Sorry, John. Oh, I have a vistor to see you. Chief Toromoro, this damaged husband of mine is the High Chief John.”

John reached out with a hand from his undamaged arm.

“Pleased to meet you, Chief. I apologise for the loss of your Shaman, but he was not a very nice man. Certainly not nice to me.”

Toromoro replied, “I hear you were injured by our Shaman. That was not a nice welcome to an important man.”

“He died for his bad manners, Chief, thanks to my wife here. I can’t offer to fill in for him, as I have duties elsewhere, so I am sorry to leave you without a Shaman. You might manage perfectly well without a Shaman. Most of them are mere tricksters.”