Read Online Changer's Daughter by Jane Lindskold - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Lindskold
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Dakar/Ogunkeye vaguely recognizes him as Anson A. Kridd, otherwise known as trouble and nuisance in a sometimes human form.
He growls something, realizes he is inarticulate, and begins again, addressing the stocky man.
“I was drunk,” he says with careful enunciation. “I had been in trouble, and I needed a name. Fast. There was a map on the wall. So...”
He shrugs, somewhat shamefaced, aware that he is drunk again but too tired to get belligerent about it.
“I was drunk,” he repeats.
“It happens,” the stocky man says in a tone of voice that adds wordlessly, “Far too frequently where you are concerned, don’t you agree?”
Dakar props his head on his hand. “Who th’ hell are you?”
Anson A. Kridd chuckles. “Don’t you recognize our kinsman? You stayed at his house until just a few weeks ago.”
Dakar recognizes that he is being baited and simply glowers. It is the same glower that stares out of the faces of all those wood or iron or plastic figures glued onto the dashboards of automobiles and lorries racing along the streets outside. It is the glower of a god who does not like being made angry. Anson relents and lowers his voice, although this is hardly necessary since they are alone.
“It is my good friend, Eddie Zagano. He has come here to see Nigeria and to get away from his too-demanding overlord.”
“He’s black!” Dakar says, stating the obvious.
“Lovern’s work. It is still Eddie.”
Eddie’s new face shows white teeth in a weirdly familiar grin. “Shall I whisper secrets from your file? Tell you what you asked for the last time you called Pendragon Productions? I can prove I am who I say...”
Dakar stops him with an abrupt gesture, reflecting that several days in the company of that obnoxious trickster has done nothing good for Eddie’s manners.
“I believe you.” He is about to offer them some of the palm wine, notices that the bottle is nearly empty, and frowns. He draws breath to shout for the bartender when Anson places a hand on his arm.
“I have an idea. Let’s go and find something to eat. We need to lay the groundwork for our business and...” It is his turn to frown. “Some new troubles have developed that I must tell you about. Can you walk?”
“Of course”—Dakar surges to his feet—“I can.”
He staggers a few steps, then pitches forward. There is a dull thud as he hits the packed-earth floor.
Eddie kneels and rolls Dakar over, finding him completely passed out. He shakes his head as he looks up at Anson.
“He can walk all right, just not very well.”
“ It’s like binary,” Aduke thinks as she watches the babalawo casting palm nuts for his client.
She and Oya have come to the Grove of the Gods, seeking answers to her many questions. Now they stand in the doorway to one of the diviner’s shelters, watching the babalawo cast the palm nuts for another client.
The casting falls into a rhythm like a dance, though the Ifa diviner remains seated. First, he tosses the sixteen nuts between his hands. The rhythm is rapid, rather like ceremonial drumbeats. Thus, this stage is often called “beating” the nuts.
When the nuts have been beaten sufficiently, the babalawo attempts to pick from his left hand as many nuts as he can with his right hand. If one nut remains, he makes two marks in the smoothed wood dust held in the divining tray set on the mat before him. If two remain, he makes one mark. Any other end result—three nuts or no nuts, for example—calls for a repeat.
Then the babalawo gathers up the nuts and begins again until sixteen sets of marks have been drawn in the dust. It is a long process, sometimes made shorter by use of an opele , or divining chain. Oya, however, had insisted that they go to this diviner.
“The orisha ,” she had said seriously, “are said to listen more carefully to the fall of the palm nuts, than to that of the chain.”
Aduke, who was beginning to hear her college-educated self arguing with her
He growls something, realizes he is inarticulate, and begins again, addressing the stocky man.
“I was drunk,” he says with careful enunciation. “I had been in trouble, and I needed a name. Fast. There was a map on the wall. So...”
He shrugs, somewhat shamefaced, aware that he is drunk again but too tired to get belligerent about it.
“I was drunk,” he repeats.
“It happens,” the stocky man says in a tone of voice that adds wordlessly, “Far too frequently where you are concerned, don’t you agree?”
Dakar props his head on his hand. “Who th’ hell are you?”
Anson A. Kridd chuckles. “Don’t you recognize our kinsman? You stayed at his house until just a few weeks ago.”
Dakar recognizes that he is being baited and simply glowers. It is the same glower that stares out of the faces of all those wood or iron or plastic figures glued onto the dashboards of automobiles and lorries racing along the streets outside. It is the glower of a god who does not like being made angry. Anson relents and lowers his voice, although this is hardly necessary since they are alone.
“It is my good friend, Eddie Zagano. He has come here to see Nigeria and to get away from his too-demanding overlord.”
“He’s black!” Dakar says, stating the obvious.
“Lovern’s work. It is still Eddie.”
Eddie’s new face shows white teeth in a weirdly familiar grin. “Shall I whisper secrets from your file? Tell you what you asked for the last time you called Pendragon Productions? I can prove I am who I say...”
Dakar stops him with an abrupt gesture, reflecting that several days in the company of that obnoxious trickster has done nothing good for Eddie’s manners.
“I believe you.” He is about to offer them some of the palm wine, notices that the bottle is nearly empty, and frowns. He draws breath to shout for the bartender when Anson places a hand on his arm.
“I have an idea. Let’s go and find something to eat. We need to lay the groundwork for our business and...” It is his turn to frown. “Some new troubles have developed that I must tell you about. Can you walk?”
“Of course”—Dakar surges to his feet—“I can.”
He staggers a few steps, then pitches forward. There is a dull thud as he hits the packed-earth floor.
Eddie kneels and rolls Dakar over, finding him completely passed out. He shakes his head as he looks up at Anson.
“He can walk all right, just not very well.”
“ It’s like binary,” Aduke thinks as she watches the babalawo casting palm nuts for his client.
She and Oya have come to the Grove of the Gods, seeking answers to her many questions. Now they stand in the doorway to one of the diviner’s shelters, watching the babalawo cast the palm nuts for another client.
The casting falls into a rhythm like a dance, though the Ifa diviner remains seated. First, he tosses the sixteen nuts between his hands. The rhythm is rapid, rather like ceremonial drumbeats. Thus, this stage is often called “beating” the nuts.
When the nuts have been beaten sufficiently, the babalawo attempts to pick from his left hand as many nuts as he can with his right hand. If one nut remains, he makes two marks in the smoothed wood dust held in the divining tray set on the mat before him. If two remain, he makes one mark. Any other end result—three nuts or no nuts, for example—calls for a repeat.
Then the babalawo gathers up the nuts and begins again until sixteen sets of marks have been drawn in the dust. It is a long process, sometimes made shorter by use of an opele , or divining chain. Oya, however, had insisted that they go to this diviner.
“The orisha ,” she had said seriously, “are said to listen more carefully to the fall of the palm nuts, than to that of the chain.”
Aduke, who was beginning to hear her college-educated self arguing with her
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