could just how much it was the same. He'd worked too closely with Doro's more gifted children to overestimate his own value. And he knew the living generations of Doro's sons and daughters would populate a city. He knew how easily both he and Daly could be replaced. After a moment he sighed as Daly had sighed. "I suppose the new blacks you brought aboard have some special talent," he said.
"That's right," Doro answered. "Something new."
"Godless animals!" Woodley muttered bitterly. He turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 4
The ship frightened Anyanwu, but it frightened Okoye more. He had seen that the men aboard were mostly white men, and in his life, he had had no good experiences with white men. Also, fellow slaves had told him the whites were cannibals.
"We will be taken to their land and fattened and eaten," he told Anyanwu.
"No," Anyanwu assured him. "It is not their custom to eat men. And if it were, our master would not permit us to be eaten. He is a powerful man."
Okoye shuddered. "He is not a man."
Anyanwu stared at him. How had he discovered Doro's strangeness so quickly?
"It was he who bought me, then sold me to the whites. I remember him; he beat me. It is the same face, the same skin. But something different is living inside. Some spirit."
"Okoye." Anyanwu spoke very softly and waited until he turned from his terrified gazing into space and looked at her. "If Doro is a spirit," she said, "then he has done you a service. He has killed your enemy for you. Is that reason to fear him?"
"You fear him yourself. I have seen it in your eyes."
Anyanwu gave him a sad smile. "Not as much as I should, perhaps."
"He is a spirit!"
"You know I am your mother's kinsman, Okoye."
He stared at her for a time without answering. Finally he asked, "Have her people also been enslaved?"
"Not when I last saw them."
"Then how were you taken?"
"Do you remember your mother's mother?"
"She is the oracle. The god speaks through her."
"She is Anyanwu, your mother's mother," Anyanwu said. "She fed you pounded yam and healed the sickness that threatened to take your life. She told you stories of the tortoise, the monkey, the birds . . . And sometimes when you looked at her in the shadows of the fire and the lamp, it seemed to you that she became these creatures. You were frightened at first. Then you were pleased. You asked for the stories and the changes. You wanted to change too."
"I was a child," Okoye said. "I was dreaming."
"You were awake."
"You cannot know!"
"I know."
"I never told anyone!"
"I never thought you would," Anyanwu said. "Even as a child, you seemed to know when to talk and when to keep quiet." She smiled, remembering the small, stoic boy who had refused to cry with the pain of his sickness, who had refused to smile when she told him the old fables her mother had told her. Only when she startled him with her changes did he begin to pay attention.
She spoke softly. "Do you remember, Okoye, your mother's mother had a mark here?" She drew with her finger the jagged old scar that she had once carried beneath her left eye. As she drew it, she aged and furrowed the flesh so that the scar appeared.
Okoye bolted toward the door.
Anyanwu caught him, held him easily in spite of his greater size and his desperate strength. "What am I that I was not before?" she asked when the violence had gone out of his struggles.
"You are a man!" he gasped. "Or a spirit."
"I am no spirit," she said. "And should it be so difficult for a woman who can become a tortoise or a monkey to become a man?"
He began to struggle again. He was a young man now, not a child. The easy childhood acceptance of the impossible was gone, and she dared not let him go. In his present state, he might jump into the water and drown.
"If you will be still, Okoye, I will become the old woman you remember."
Still he struggled.
" Nwadiani —daughter's child—do you remember that even the pain of sickness could not make you weep when your
"That's right," Doro answered. "Something new."
"Godless animals!" Woodley muttered bitterly. He turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 4
The ship frightened Anyanwu, but it frightened Okoye more. He had seen that the men aboard were mostly white men, and in his life, he had had no good experiences with white men. Also, fellow slaves had told him the whites were cannibals.
"We will be taken to their land and fattened and eaten," he told Anyanwu.
"No," Anyanwu assured him. "It is not their custom to eat men. And if it were, our master would not permit us to be eaten. He is a powerful man."
Okoye shuddered. "He is not a man."
Anyanwu stared at him. How had he discovered Doro's strangeness so quickly?
"It was he who bought me, then sold me to the whites. I remember him; he beat me. It is the same face, the same skin. But something different is living inside. Some spirit."
"Okoye." Anyanwu spoke very softly and waited until he turned from his terrified gazing into space and looked at her. "If Doro is a spirit," she said, "then he has done you a service. He has killed your enemy for you. Is that reason to fear him?"
"You fear him yourself. I have seen it in your eyes."
Anyanwu gave him a sad smile. "Not as much as I should, perhaps."
"He is a spirit!"
"You know I am your mother's kinsman, Okoye."
He stared at her for a time without answering. Finally he asked, "Have her people also been enslaved?"
"Not when I last saw them."
"Then how were you taken?"
"Do you remember your mother's mother?"
"She is the oracle. The god speaks through her."
"She is Anyanwu, your mother's mother," Anyanwu said. "She fed you pounded yam and healed the sickness that threatened to take your life. She told you stories of the tortoise, the monkey, the birds . . . And sometimes when you looked at her in the shadows of the fire and the lamp, it seemed to you that she became these creatures. You were frightened at first. Then you were pleased. You asked for the stories and the changes. You wanted to change too."
"I was a child," Okoye said. "I was dreaming."
"You were awake."
"You cannot know!"
"I know."
"I never told anyone!"
"I never thought you would," Anyanwu said. "Even as a child, you seemed to know when to talk and when to keep quiet." She smiled, remembering the small, stoic boy who had refused to cry with the pain of his sickness, who had refused to smile when she told him the old fables her mother had told her. Only when she startled him with her changes did he begin to pay attention.
She spoke softly. "Do you remember, Okoye, your mother's mother had a mark here?" She drew with her finger the jagged old scar that she had once carried beneath her left eye. As she drew it, she aged and furrowed the flesh so that the scar appeared.
Okoye bolted toward the door.
Anyanwu caught him, held him easily in spite of his greater size and his desperate strength. "What am I that I was not before?" she asked when the violence had gone out of his struggles.
"You are a man!" he gasped. "Or a spirit."
"I am no spirit," she said. "And should it be so difficult for a woman who can become a tortoise or a monkey to become a man?"
He began to struggle again. He was a young man now, not a child. The easy childhood acceptance of the impossible was gone, and she dared not let him go. In his present state, he might jump into the water and drown.
"If you will be still, Okoye, I will become the old woman you remember."
Still he struggled.
" Nwadiani —daughter's child—do you remember that even the pain of sickness could not make you weep when your
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