“Yes,” I say.
“Ishologu, he the handsomest of men, skin white like clay, whiter than this one, but pretty like him too,” Ikede say, looking at Mossi.
“Ayet bu ajijiyat kanon,” Mossi say. My eye spread wide open before I could pretend no surprise.
“A white bird. He surely is, yes, but he not good. He more evil than people can even think. And Ishologu ever worse. Because he handsome and he in a gown white like he skin, woman think they come to him free, but Ishologu infecting they mind as soon as he enter the room. And he open he gown which is not no gown but his wings and he not wearing no robes, and he make woman do what they don’t choose to do, and some men too, when he feel the desire. Most he kill, some he make live, but they not living, they living dead with lightning running through they body where blood used to run. I hear rumors that he change man too. And watch if you step to the lightning bird and he know, for he change into something big and furious and when he flap his wings he let loose thunder which shake the ground and deafen the ear and knock down a whole house, and lightning that shock your blood and burn you to a husk.
“This is how it happen before that, in Nigiki. A hot night. See a man and a woman in a room, and a cloud of flies above a bed mat. He a handsome man, neck long, hair black, eyes bright, lips thick. Too tall for the room. He grin at the cloud of flies. He nod at the woman and she, naked, bleeding from the shoulder, walk over. Her eyes, they gone up in her skull and her lips, just quivering. She covered in wetness. She walking to him, her hands stiff at the side, stepping over her own clothes and scattered sorghum from a bowl that shatter. She come closer, her blood still in his mouth.
“He grab her neck with one hand and feel her belly for sign of the child with the other. Dog teeth grow out of his mouth and past his chin. His fingers roughing between her legs, but she still. Ipundulu point a finger at the woman’s breast and a claw pop through the middle finger. He press deep into her chest and blood pump up, as he cut her chest open for the heart. The grass troll, Eloko, he don’t care for the heart. He only hunt alone or with his kind, but since the King burn down his forest to plant tobacco and millet, he join anyone. Maybe they don’t know if is two of them or one get mention twice. And then picture this. A cloud of flies swarming and buzzing, and fattening up with blood. Flies pull away for a blink and is a boy on the mat, covered in pox holes like chigger. From the pox holes worm burrow out, ten, dozens, hundreds, pop out of the boy’s skin, unfold wings and flying off. The boy’s eyes wide open, his blood dripping onto the bed mat also covered in flies. Bite, burrow, suck. Him mouth crack open and a groan come out. The boy is a wasp nest.”
“Adze? You telling me an Adze moving with them? They used to only like cold country,” I say.
“Times change. Somebody had to take Obayifo’s place. This is what happen when Ipundulu suck out all the blood but stop before he suck out the life. He breed lightning into her which drive her mad. A magistrate pull all of this out of her mouth, but he is not a griot to make verse. There be those three and two more, and another one. This is what I telling you. They working together. But is an Ishologu leading them. And then this boy.”
“What of the boy?” I ask.
“Don’t play fool to catch wise. You know they use the boy to get into the woman house.”
“They forcing boy,” I say.
“Now you sound like the water sprite. Also this, Sogolon. Another one. He following them one or two days later, for by then the rotting bodies that Ishologu didn’t kill is a pleasing scent to him. He used to have a brother till somebody kill him in the Hills of Enchantment.”
The Tracker just then look away then turn back just as quick, thinking nobody see.
“By force, by choice, neither matter. They putting the boy to use, certainly as lure,” Ikede say.
“You get no dispute from me,” I say.
“And the boy has been gone three years?” Mossi ask.
“Yes.”
Everybody in the room know the words that would follow, so nobody say them.
“How they know of the ten and nine doors, and how they use them?” Mossi ask.
“You have to ask. One of those bloodsuckers was a Sangomin, or under their magic,” I say.
“Woman, you really are tiresome,” the Tracker say.
“Fools, we losing time,” the old man say to all of us.
Over by the chest he take out a thick parchment.
“Too much for one afternoon, old man, show us tonight,” I say. And everybody make to leave before the griot object. Only then I notice that Jakwu don’t leave because he gone long ago.
* * *
—
This old man. This damn griot. He not only know of the ten and nine doors, but he mark them on a map. Tracker never see a map before, but Mossi, who come here by sea, gaze at it like one entranced. I thought these were uncharted lands, he say, then ask if they were drawn by masters from the East. Ikede ask if he think that only man the color of sand can draw, which quiet him a little.
“You mark them in red? Based on what wisdom?” I ask.
“Mathematics and measuring arts. Nobody travel four moons in one flip of a sand glass, unless they move like the gods, or they using the ten and nine doors.”
“And this is them,” I said. “All of them?”
“All that we know. But there may be more, down south perhaps.”
“What else we know about them?”
“You already know plenty.”
“Not that, old man.”
“Oh.” He chuckle. “More things we know. Once you set through a door, you can go through it again as much as you wish, but you can’t go retrace your steps, not until you complete all the doors. If them vampires stopping anywhere from five days to eight, then they make a full cycle three times a year. Perhaps.”
“So what happens if I go back to the hall of records?” the Tracker ask.
“It’s no more,” Mossi say.
“But the door still stands. What happens if I go backwards to the Darklands?”
“We don’t know. Nobody ever survive it to tell us,” Ikede say. “They must be using them for two years now, Sogolon. House of Records have papers that say for longer.”
“Used to have,” I say.
“They near impossible to keep track, even if we know they pattern. Some places rich in victims, some places poor. And some places fight back. But they stay the course until the journey complete, then they go backways. That’s why I draw each line with an arrow at the two ends. That way they kill at night, kill only one house, maybe two, maybe four, all the killing they can do in seven or eight days, then vanish before they leave any real mark.”