Black Leopard, Red Wolf (The Dark Star Trilogy #1)
Marlon James
To Jeff, for quartermoon and a million other things
Those Who Appear in this Account
IN JUBA, KU, GANGATOM
KWASH DARA, son of Kwash Netu; King of the North Kingdom, aka the Spider King TRACKER, hunter known by no other name HIS FATHER
HIS MOTHER
BELOVED UNCLE, a great chief of the Ku KU, a river tribe and territory GANGATOM, a river tribe, territory, and enemy of the Ku LUALA LUALA, a river tribe and territory north of the Ku ABOYAMI, a father
AYODELE, his son
WITCHMAN, necromancer of the Ku ITAKI, a river witch
KAVA/ASANI, boy of the Ku LEOPARD, shape-shifting hunter known by a few other names YUMBOES, bush fairies and guardians of children THE SANGOMA, an antiwitch THE MINGI, who are:
Giraffe Boy
Smoke Girl
Albino
Ball Boy
The joined twins
ASANBOSAM, monstrous eater of human flesh THE GANGATOM CHIEF
IN MALAKAL
THE AESI, chancellor of Kwash Dara BUNSHI/POPELE, river jengu, mermaid, shape-shifter SOGOLON, the Moon Witch SADOGO, of the Ogos, tall, mighty men who are not giants AMADU KASAWURA, a slaver BIBI, his manservant
NSAKA NE VAMPI, a mercenary NYKA, a mercenary
FUMELI, the Leopard’s bowman BELEKUN THE BIG, a fat elder ADAGAGI THE WISE, a wise elder AMAKI THE SLIPPERY, an elder nobody knows NOOYA, a woman possessed by the lightning bird THE BULTUNGI, avengers ZOGBANU, trolls originally from the Blood Swamp VENIN, a girl raised to be food for the Zogbanu CHIPFALAMBULA, a great fish GHOMMIDS, sometimes-nice forest creatures EWELE, a vicious ghommid EGBERE, his cousin, vicious when hungry ANJONU, spirit of the Darklands who reads hearts THE MAD MONKEY, a deranged primate
IN KONGOR
BASU FUMANGURU, elder of the North Kingdom, murdered HIS WIFE, murdered
HIS SONS, murdered
THE SEVEN WINGS, mercenaries KAFUTA, lord of a house MISS WADADA, owner of a brothel EKOIYE, a whore who loves civet musk THE BUFFALO, a very smart buffalo KONGORI CHIEFTAIN ARMY, local constables MOSSI OF AZAR, third prefect of the Kongori chieftain army MAZAMBEZI, a prefect
RED OGO, another Ogo
BLUE OGO, another Ogo THE MASTER OF ENTERTAINMENTS, the Ogo fight master LALA, his slave
THE MAWANA WITCHES, dirt mermaids, aka mud jengu TOKOLOSHE, a small gremlin who makes himself invisible
IN DOLINGO AND THE MWERU
OLD MAN, lord of a hut and southern griot THE QUEEN OF DOLINGO, as it says HER CHANCELLOR
DOLINGON SLAVE BOY
THE WHITE SCIENTISTS, darkest of the necromancers and alchemists BAD IBEJI, a malformed twin JAKWU, white guard for King Batuta IPUNDULU, vampire lightning bird SASABONSAM, winged brother of Asanbosam ADZE, vampire and bug swarm ELOKO, grass troll and cannibal LISSISOLO OF AKUM, sister of Kwash Dara, nun of the divine sisterhood SHADOWINGS, night demons who serve the Aesi
IN MITU
IKEDE, a southern griot KAMANGU, a son
NIGULI, a son
KOSU, a son
LOEMBE, a son
NKANGA, a son
KHAMSEEN, a daughter
IN THE MALANGIKA AND THE SOUTH KINGDOM
A YOUNG WITCH
A MERCHANT
HIS WIFE
HIS SON
KAMIKWAYO, a white scientist turned monster
ONE
The child is dead. There is nothing left to know.
I hear there is a queen in the south who kills the man who brings her bad news. So when I give word of the boy’s death, do I write my own death with it? Truth eats lies just as the crocodile eats the moon, and yet my witness is the same today as it will be tomorrow. No, I did not kill him. Though I may have wanted him dead. Craved for it the way a glutton craves goat flesh. Oh, to draw a bow and fire it through his black heart and watch it explode black blood, and to watch his eyes for when they stop blinking, when they look but stop seeing, and to listen for his voice croaking and hear his chest heave in a death rattle saying, Look, my wretched spirit leaves this most wretched of bodies, and to smile at such tidings and dance at such a loss. Yes, I glut at the conceit of it. But no, I did not kill him.
Bi oju ri enu a pamo.
Not everything the eye sees should be spoken by the mouth.
This cell is larger than the one before. I smell the dried blood of executed men; I hear their ghosts still screaming. Your bread carries weevils, and your water carries the piss of ten and two guards and the goat they fuck for sport. Shall I give you a story?
I am just a man who some have called a wolf. The child is dead. I know the old woman brings you different news. Call him murderer, she says. Even though my only sorrow is that I did not kill her. The redheaded one said the child’s head was infested with devils. If you believe in devils. I believe in bad blood. You look like a man who has never shed blood. And yet blood sticks between your fingers. A boy you circumcised, a young girl too small for your big … Look how that thrills you. Look at you.
I will give you a story.
It begins with a Leopard.
And a witch.
Grand Inquisitor.
Fetish priest.
No, you will not call for the guards.
My mouth might say too much before they club it shut.
Regard yourself. A man with two hundred cows who delights in a patch of boy skin and the koo of a girl who should be no man’s woman. Because that is what you seek, is it not? A dark little thing that cannot be found in thirty sacks of gold or two hundred cows or two hundred wives. Something that you have lost—no, it was taken from you. That light, you see it and you want it—not light from the sun, or from the thunder god in the night sky, but light with no blemish, light in a boy who has no knowledge of women, a girl you bought for marriage, not because you need a wife, for you have two hundred cows, but a wife you can tear open, because you search for it in holes, black holes, wet holes, undergrown holes for the light that vampires look for, and you will have it, you will dress it up in ceremony, circumcision for the boy, consummation for the girl, and when they shed blood, and spit, and sperm and piss you leave it all on your skin, to go to the iroko tree and use any hole you find.
The child is dead, and so is everyone.
I walked for days, through swarms of flies in the Blood Swamp and skin-slicing rocks in salt plains, through day and night. I walked as far south as Omororo and did not know or care. Men detained me as a beggar, took me for a thief, tortured me as a traitor, and when news of the dead child reached your kingdom, arrested me as a murderer. Did you know there were five men in my cell? Four nights ago. The scarf around my neck belongs to the only man who left on two feet. He might even see from his right eye again one day.
The other four. Make record as I have said it.
Old men say night is a fool. It will not judge, but whatever comes it will not warn. The first came for my bed. I woke up to my own death rattle, and it was a man, crushing my throat. Shorter than an Ogo, but taller than a horse. Smelled like he butchered a goat. Grabbed me by the neck and hoisted me up in the air while the other men kept quiet. I tried to pull his fingers but a devil was in his grip. Kicking his chest was kicking stone. He held me up as if admiring a precious jewel. I kneed him in the jaw so hard his teeth sliced his tongue. He dropped me, and I charged for his balls like a bull. He fell, I grabbed his knife, razor sharp, and cut his throat. The second grabbed for my arms, but I was naked and slippery. The knife—my knife—I rammed it between his ribs and heard his heart pop. The third man danced with his feet and fists, like a night fly, whistling like a mosquito. Made a fist I did, then stuck two fingers out, like rabbit ears. Jabbed his left eye in the quick and pulled the whole thing out. He screamed. Watching him bawl on the floor, searching for his eye, I forgot the other two men. The fat one behind me, he swung, I ducked, he tripped, he fell, I jumped, I grabbed the rock that was my pillow and bashed his head until his face smelled fleshy.
The last man was a boy. He cried. He was too shaken to beg for his life. I told him to be a man in his next life, for he is less than a worm in this one, and flung the knife right into his neck. His blood hit the floor before his knees. I let the half-blind man live because we need stories in order to live, don’t we, priest? Inquisitor. I don’t know what to call you.
But these are not your men. Good. Then you have no death song to sing to their widows.