The Apex Book of World SF 2 Page 5

  The bride and groom had been told what to do when he said these words. The groom cradled his new wife's head between his palms and leant forwards. Katulo lifted his arms in the air and opened his senses to their kiss. He let himself feel the moment. At the same time he thought of his marriage to Owuro when he was twenty-six. He let himself relive the rush of adrenaline and the tremble in his lips before he kissed her. He pictured Owuro's light olive skin and long braids. He thought of her crooked smile and mischievous eyes. He remembered the taste of her wedding kiss—light cinnamon and cloves. His flesh tingled. He felt the earth around him as if it were part of his body. He let his memories seep into the ground.

  Between the wedding guests, wispy figures appeared. The mirages were all embracing and kissing. They were misty at first and then gradually became fully visible. There were twelve couples in total. Some were barefoot and almost naked, while others were adorned with tinted cloths, beads and bangles. Most of them were young but there was a grey-haired couple hugging each other near the bride and groom. It was not only images that were Wakened. The air was suddenly full with the sound of lovers' giggles and frenzied exhalations. Scents of perfume, coconut and crushed flower petals tickled every nostril

  One or two of the guests began to weep. Wakings were intense because everyone watching experienced a measure of the action. That is why young boys and girls were chased away. Every guest, for a minute, felt the passion and desire of the distant past. Katulo's gaze focused on one couple. The woman was wearing an elaborate headdress that denoted her as a storyteller, and the young man with her had a proud, regal face and a thick moustache. It was strange to see the younger version of himself. No matter how many times he performed Wakings, it was the hardest part to get used to. His younger self was smirking with self-confidence. Owuro looked so young and so beautiful. Katulo wished he could step forwards and touch her. She looked so real.

  And then, in a breath, she and the rest of the spectres were gone.

  The father of the bride was the first to snap out of the silent awe that enshrouded everyone in the grove. He bowed deeply. "Thank you, Waker."

  4

  Katulo did not stay for the rest of the reception. He wanted to get to Bujumbura by nightfall. He said his good-byes and summoned Eyo. If the boy was disappointed at having to leave the festivities, it did not show. He obeyed immediately and a little nervously. He seemed frightened. At first Katulo was sure he was imagining it but, as they walked, Eyo continued to glance at him from time to time. He would look away whenever Katulo looked back. At first Katulo ignored it but, after they had been walking for an hour, he lost his patience. "I am the same person I was yesterday?"

  "I know," was the timid reply.

  "You are looking at me like I am not human."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm not angry with you, Eyo. What is on your mind?"

  "Nothing"

  Nothing? This from the boy who usually asked "why" with irritating consistency after every statement Katulo made. "If the Waking is bothering you, you can ask me about it."

  Eyo hesitated. Katulo did not insist. He waited.

  "Th… Those were g…ghosts?"

  "Yes," Katulo replied. "But they were not ghosts of dead people. They were ghosts of past moments. Everything is changed by the passage of time. When a river passes over rocks it wears them down in a unique pattern. A man who knows how to look can tell you many things about the river and the rocks because the mark they leave is unique. It is the same for actions. Everything we do changes the land. When we sang at the wedding, when we danced, even now as we walk, our steps are changing the earth. The land remembers."

  "So they were not real ghosts?"

  "They were echoes of the past."

  "It was amazing."

  Katulo smiled and then felt a tide of sadness. "Yes it was. But I may be the last Waker in Burundi."

  "How can that be?"

  "Waking is not a skill that is easy to pass on. A person can only be taught to bring the past back to life if they can already feel the echoes left in the land."

  "How did you learn?"

  "I learnt in secret, back in the days of the white outsiders. Worse than the things they did to our governments were the things they did to our beliefs. They forced our people to worship their God and learn their ceremonies. They called our ways devilry and superstition. My father was a spirit speaker. There had once been many like him, but the white outsiders killed many of them. My father kept the old ways alive by hiding, and people would travel far to ask him for advice or to see him when they were sick. He taught me how to Wake and begged me to pass on the skill."

  Shame threaded through Katulo. He and Owuro had never been able to have children and he had not remarried after she'd died. The failure of every apprentice he'd tried to teach Waking to, made him suspect that sensitivity to the land was hereditary. His determination not to betray Owuro's memory might have doomed the ancient skill. So much of the old knowledge was already gone. Most of the medicines Katulo used were European, taken out of glass bottles and plastic vials instead of the earth and trees. They were purchased in what little trade still occurred between Burundi and Europe. The white outsiders no longer had concrete interests in Africa. They were too busy rebuilding to care about much else.

  Whatever nostalgia Katulo might have, he had to admit the medicines they sent worked better than the saps and herbs his father had taught him to use. His father had considered it a betrayal when he chose to learn white medicine, but he had needed to make a living. The only way to get a job at hospitals in Bujumbura had been with a degree in Western medicine. His father had raged and called him a disgrace. Long ago, Katulo had promised himself that when he had children, he would be more understanding but the closest he had ever had to children were his apprentices.

  5

  They arrived in Bujumbura in the early evening. It was still hot but winds from the north brought temporary relief. The city streets were full of filth and litter. Broken glass, crumpled papers, rotting food and empty plastic bottles clogged the drainpipes. Every time Katulo visited the city it looked worse. Eyo and Katulo passed many rickety beggars and malnourished prostitutes. Why do people want to live here? Katulo pondered. The answer was bright in Eyo's eyes. The boy was staring at the buildings with delight. In his mind, he was surely concocting a fantasy life in the city. The city had large stores with diverse wares and water that sprang from taps at the turn of a knob—much more enticing than dreary village life.

  It had been a long time since Katulo had last seen Kalé. They had become friends when Katulo had lived in the city, working for a private clinic. Back then, the wounds Burundi had suffered at the turn of the century seemed to have healed. Things had progressed to the point that a friendship between a Hutu and a Tutsi was no big thing. How had the old resentments come back? Was it because they were left alone and not consciously minded?

  The central city was almost entirely populated by Hutus. The Tutsis lived in outlying ghettos. It had not always been that way. The Tutsis had once been the majority. Katulo still remembered the way to Kalé's home. They walked from the poor to the rich district. The buildings looked just as decayed and the streets were just as squalid. In some of the windows though, electric lights were on. They passed one house in which music was playing. To be able to use electricity for entertainment was an indicator of great wealth.

  When they reached Kalé's home, a security guard told them, "The Minister is not here. He is at a party." The guard refused to give them directions but Katulo remembered the house that had been playing music. He backtracked with Eyo until they reached it. The door was open. They walked upstairs. The house was crammed with people. A servant handed them both bottles of beer. Eyo looked from the bottle in his hand to Katulo.

  "It's all right. I won't tell anybody." Eyo smiled and took a big gulp. His face contorted at the bad taste.

  "It gets better," Katulo assured him.

  He looked around the room. It woul
d be hard to find Kalé. He wove through the tightly packed group. At the end of the room he saw two young men who were seated at a table that seemed to be the epicentre of the celebration. One of them had probably got married, or maybe they had both won some sport? Faces Katulo could recognise surrounded them. He had seen them in newspapers though he wasn't sure of their names. Someone at that table would surely know where Kalé was. As he went to the table, Katulo realised he should probably congratulate the two youths being honoured. He stopped a staggering man with a pimpled nose. "What is this party for?" he asked.

  The man laughed and Katulo inhaled the stench of beer. "You don't know, Old Father? Yesterday, some of those Tutsi animals were making trouble. Those boys there beat them down good. Made them run like the cowards they are."

  Katulo suddenly could not breathe. The man was still talking but he could not hear it. Shock filled him with a sensation like panic. No. No. No. No. It couldn't be. Out of the corner of his eye Katulo saw someone approaching him. It was Kalé. He had a thick grey beard and the curls on his head were white. His facial expression was taut with urgency. "What are you doing here?"

  Katulo could not answer. Eyo answered for him. "We came to see you?"

  "You can't be here. I'll talk to you outside." Kalé was a large-bodied man. What was once a boxer's frame of heavy muscle was now composed of layers of fat, but he still looked menacing. Once outside, Kalé instructed Eyo, "Wait here? We need to talk alone." He grabbed Katulo by the collar and dragged him into the darkness of an alley. "Do you know how foolish it was of you to come here? You know what might have happened if you were recognised?" Kalé paused. The concern gave way to a smirk. "Still, it's good to see you."

  "What would have happened? Would I have been beaten for being a Tutsi, too?"

  "I know you are angry, but that in there is just politics. The anti-Tutsi groups are very popular. Those boys are guests of honour and for show. They don't have any real power."

  "They have to be punished." Katulo's voice had risen in volume. "That's why I came here. They nearly killed someone."

  "Nonsense, it was just immature childishness."

  "Right now he's in my clinic."

  "I am sorry, Katulo."

  "You should not be the one saying it. There is a lot of anger and it could escalate into disaster. Those two have to be put on trial."

  "Impossible."

  "Chama may die?"

  "I told you, it's political."

  "They are savages."

  "They did not start it. Those Tutsi boys were causing trouble."

  "Those "Tutsi" boys?"

  Kalé looked down, embarrassed. "It's complicated. You live in the rural areas. It's simpler there. Here, there has been unrest. Tutsi labourers refusing to work, demonstrations, things like that. People are fed up."

  "That gives them the right to assault people who are protesting peacefully?"

  "Peacefully? They were throwing stones, breaking windows."

  "Did they hurt anyone?"

  "They could have."

  "They will, Kalé."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Think, Kalé. The ones from my village who were attacked are thinking "revenge" now. They will do something, something very stupid, and they will make someone else start thinking revenge. It will keep going like that until it loses control."

  "Then stop them."

  "How? They were the ones attacked. It has to be those boys in there."

  "Then we will leave it alone and hope it passes."

  "How can you say that, Kalé? You and I are maybe the only people old enough to remember what it was like."

  "This is nothing like that."

  "Maybe it started like this and if people had just tried to take control of it…"

  "You're just fantasising, Katulo. You were also a boy. You had no idea of the political and social forces that caused the fighting. You only saw the results. Burundi was a child then. We are older now and things will not lose control."

  "Two boys who almost killed another are being congratulated instead of punished. I say it's already out of control."

  Kalé was now visibly irate. "Look, I've already said…" He started to leave.

  "Wait." Katulo placed his palm on Kalé's ribs. "I understand there are a lot of political things at work. You aren't in charge of the policies your party makes, but what if I could get the boys who were protesting to apologise? Could you get those boys, if not to stand trial, to at least apologise? That would not pacify everyone, but it might be enough."

  Kalé thought for a moment. "I don't know."

  "Can you at least try?"

  "All right."

  "Thank you."

  The two old friends exited the alley and parted ways.

  "Did it work?" Eyo asked.

  "I don't know. We need to return home immediately."

  "You said we would stay here tonight?"

  "I thought we would, but not anymore." Katulo remembered Kalé's words: You know what might have happened if you had been recognised?

  "It is late," the boy pleaded.

  "It took us five hours to get here. It's what, seven now. We can make it before midnight. If we get tired we can make camp on the way and walk the rest of the way tomorrow."

  "Why can't we—"

  "We have nowhere to stay."

  6

  In Siranja forest, Katulo saw Eyo was lagging behind. "All right, we'll stop here."

  Relieved, Eyo let his pack drop to the floor.

  Katulo began picking up fallen branches. "I'll get a fire started and set up camp."

  "A fire?" The gaze Eyo gave Katulo was one that suspected him of insanity. In the heat it was an understandable reaction.

  "All I have is dried fruit. I thought you might try and catch some game."

  Eyo agreed. "I am hungry."

  "We should have taken food from that party before we left."

  "Why do people like beer anyway?"

  "You get used to it."

  "Why would you do something so unpleasant over and over again until you got used to it?"

  "Good question."

  Eyo took out a hand spear and went off in search of game. Katulo set up the tent. He realised now that he had placed too much hope in Kalé. He had thought it would be so easy: Kalé would use his influence, the boys would be tried, and then everything would calm down. "Even an eighty-nine-year-old man can be naïve," he mumbled.

  Eyo returned after half an hour. In his hands he carried a dead rabbit. He tossed it beside the fire Katulo had roused, and then sat. "There is something about this forest?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The trees don't look right. They're so pale, thin, and tall. They seem like they are moving even when there is no wind. Also, when I was hunting, I felt something… I don't know…sort of…sad."

  Katulo was instantly more attentive. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. What is it about this place?"

  "There is a story that says that long ago when the gods still walked the earth there was a great divide between them. The gods split into two groups and fought a terrible war for a hundred years. The continents were torn apart. The war ended with a great battle right here. Thousands of gods were slain. After the battle, the blood and rotting flesh of the dead germinated the earth and trees sprouted that had trunks of bone."

  "They do look like bones." Eyo reached out and touched the bark of one of the towering trees. "Do you believe the story?"

  "All stories have some truth in them, but also some that is not true. You said you felt sadness?"

  "It's less now that I've stopped hunting, but it's still there. I feel like I want to cry but I don't know why."

  "I feel that, too, whenever I enter this forest."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Something terrible did happen in this forest once. I do not know whether it was between gods or between men but the land here is weeping. I told you that the land remembers everything. Something left a stain here."

>   Eyo nodded and quietly reached through his bundle. He took out a knife.

  Katulo debated whether to say what was on his mind. Part of him told him not to hope—not to dare hope… "It means something that you can sense the sadness in the land."

  "What?"

  "Maybe you can learn to Wake?"

  "Me?" Eyo's body was a string pulled taut.

  "It is a small chance," Katulo said firmly. He did not want Eyo to get his hopes up.

  "Can I try now?"

  "No."

  "What better time is there to learn?"

  Katulo laughed. "All right, you can try, but do not expect anything."

  "What do I do?"

  "You were about to skin the rabbit. Go ahead."

  Eyo's left eyebrow perked up.

  "I am not trying to trick you. All Wakings need two things to make them happen. One is an action. The other is a memory. You cannot Wake anything you have not done. It is not enough just to have watched. I could not, for example, Wake a birth because I have never given birth. Do you remember the first time you skinned an animal?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me about it. Tell me everything you remember."

  "It was at my uncle's farm. It was just a chicken. My brother lopped off its head with a machete. I knew chickens did not die immediately but it was something else to see it. It wriggled and flapped its wings. Blood poured out of its head; it should have been red but I remember it being dark—nearly black—and smelly. I wanted to run away but my brother was watching. He wanted me to run so he could laugh at me…" Eyo broke off. "Oh, I just realised. I plucked the chicken; it's not like a rabbit."

  "It's close enough. Think of as many details as you can about that chicken. Think of what the feathers felt like and how slippery the blood made your fingers. Remember what your saliva tasted like. Think of that moment as though you were reliving it, and as you do so, begin to skin the rabbit. It is hard to do but to Wake, your mind must be totally in the past and totally in the present. The old memories in the land want to live again but you have to be a conduit."