Changer's Daughter (33 page)

The tornado grows and grows. Beneath its funnel cloud, all is still and silent, even the birds and little animals say nothing. Respecting this new law, Aduke and Oya whisper the praise songs, keeping them for the
orisha
’s ears alone.

Once dusty, the air now seems fresher, the light brighter as if the tornado has sucked all the dust, all the pollution, up into itself. Then as sudden as a thought, the tornado disperses, its cyclonic energy becoming a swirling wall about the city of Monamona, an opaque wall at the base, but becoming clearer as it rises, as the
orisha
takes mercy on her children and does not rob them of the sun’s light.

Oya’s altar is empty. Later they will learn that in the Grove of the Gods the shrine to Oya has also been emptied, as has every little household shrine dedicated to the goddess.

“We did it!” Aduke says, letting her feet stop dancing, her eyes round with disbelief.

“She did it,” Oya corrects gently. “Oya did it.”

“The phone’s not working either,” Eddie says, setting the receiver back in its cradle. “No phone, no radio, no television, no electricity, and now this odd windstorm. I wonder what will happen next?”

Anson turns from the window. “We will get electricity once more. Shango will see to that—it is his responsibility. Telephone,” he shrugs. “Who can say, eh?”

Dakar Agadez reenters the room, waits impatiently for Anson to finish speaking. His posture is changed. No longer is he mournful Ogun, drunk as much with grief as with wine. He is Ogun the hunter, Ogun the guide, Ogun the soldier, back from reconnoitering the situation.

“It started at dawn,” he reports. “I’ve been talking with some market women who were setting up their food stalls for the morning trade. Soon after false dawn, the
harmattan
lessened, then stilled. Then a terrible tornado spread until it split, becoming this wall.

“After I’d heard all the market women had to tell, I walked to the edge of the city, over to where one of the checkpoints is. Police Chief Otun Maluu was there with some of his men. I stood and watched while they tried various things, but the long and short of it is, no one can leave Monamona.”

Anson chews his lower lip. “In many ways, that is a good thing. If no one can leave, then neither can Regis send out his diseases. Our enemy is somewhat neutralized, eh?”

“
Na
,” Dakar agrees, and would say more but Eddie interrupts.

“Wait a second! Before we start congratulating ourselves on Regis being neutralized, I want to know, which one of you did this?”

Dakar looks at Anson, only to find Anson looking at him. There is a surprised pause that Anson breaks with hearty laughter.

“Neither you nor me, then,” he says. “Shango, perhaps? This is his city.”

As if to confirm his guess, at that moment the lights come on again.

“But how?” Eddie bulls on stubbornly. “How could he create a wind like this?”

Anson grins and flips his palms out in a gesture expressing ignorance. “Who knows? Magical spells have never been my strong point, just a few little tricks and illusions. Shango, though, has always been able to tap strong powers like the lightning.”

Dakar shakes his massive head. “No. Shango has never had the wind. In myth, the lightning and thunder were Shango’s. Oya had the wind.”

“Oya?” Eddie says. “Anson, you mentioned her a few days ago, didn’t you? She was...” He remembers now and pauses in embarrassment, but it is too late to retreat, “married to both Shango and Ogun.”

“Oya never existed,” Anson insists quickly, before Dakar can retort, “at least not as the name of an athanor. She was just the remarkable focus of a conglomeration of incredible legends. Right, Dakar?”

Dakar shakes his head stubbornly. “Shango has never had the wind. The wind belongs to Oya.”

A knock on the door sounds, then the doorknob turns, and a hooded and cloaked figure, bent nearly double at the waist, slips inside. Even before the door has shut behind it, Eddie has a gun in his hand.

Dakar is more direct. Reaching out a massive hand, he clamps the figure behind the neck and lifts. The motion is like a cat lifting a mouse and the intention apparently the same, but before Dakar can snap the intruder’s neck, the hood falls back, revealing the curled locks and handsome features of Shango.

Dakar’s fist opens and he drops the other athanor as he might have a viper. Shango catches himself before he hits the floor and looks up from a crouch, a rueful expression on his face.

“I should have called ahead,” he says, “but the phones were not working, and I could not trust a messenger. Which one of you did this thing? And how could you take such a step without notifying me first?”

Three dark faces study him blankly, then Anson says slowly:

“So it wasn’t you?”

“No!” Shango shakes his head. “Don’t you know your Yoruban mythology? Oya has the wind, not Shango.”

He frowns as he notices that none of the others are laughing at his joke.

“Oddly enough,” Eddie explains, “we were just debating that issue. Dakar seems to have won the point.”

Dakar bobs an ironic bow, but his gaze remains fastened on Shango as if sorry he hadn’t snapped his neck.

“So,” he rumbles, “if you did not do it, and we did not do it, then who did do it?”

“A neat question,” Anson says, “and one we must answer without delay. Shango, who else of power resides in Monamona?”

“No one that I know,” Shango says, rising from his crouch and going to sit on the edge of one of the beds. “There are a few athanor animals—a lizard, a couple of birds—but as far as I know, there are no other human-form athanor here except for ourselves.”

“Could it be humans with magical power?” Eddie asks, for these are known, though such powers are far rarer among humans than among the athanor.

Shango shrugs. “There are some, mostly some market witches and diviners—maybe a street performer with a bit of magical charisma, but, as I said, no one of great power that I know.”

“No one,” Dakar says. “No one that you know. No one that I know. Anson?”

The Spider shakes his head.

“But,” Dakar continues pedantically, “there must be someone, for someone has raised this wind.”

“True enough,” Shango says. “I had not started inquiries because I was certain that one of you was the cause and I did not want anyone looking for you. Now...”

“Now,” Eddie says firmly, “we must find who has caused this. He could be a potent ally—certainly he cannot be ignored. Normally, I’d start searching databases for an athanor who might fit the bill. The phone’s down, though, so I can’t link to the Pendragon Productions databases. I certainly didn’t bring those files on vacation. Any thoughts on how we should proceed?”

“Asking questions,” Anson says. “Dakar has made a good start. By now the marketplaces will be full of gossip. The places of worship will be packed, too.”

“I can check with my government contacts,” Shango says, “now that I know you are not responsible.”

“Wait!” Anson warns. “Don’t look too hard in that direction. If the wind worker is someone we can ally ourselves with, we don’t want Regis to get wind of him—or her. If you must make some motion of looking for someone who raised a storm, do it badly. Wasn’t your current identity educated abroad?”

Shango nods.

“Then talk like an educated man,” Anson says. “Mock superstition. Use big words like meteorology, convection currents, thermodynamics, and atmospheric circulation. Make speeches. Meanwhile, we will do the looking.”

Again Shango nods, but this time he is smiling.

“I can do that. It should be fun.” He puts on a pompous expression and speaks through his nose. “I was educated at Oxford, sir, and I tell you this is merely a minor meteorological event, a thermoscopic shift, perhaps anticipating a pluviometric situation clashing with local restive air.”

Eddie grins. “That doesn’t make much sense, but it sounds great. Can you pull it off?”

Shango grins happily. “In my sleep. The only difficulty will be keeping from laughing where anyone can hear.”

“Very good,” Anson says, all but shoving Shango out the door. “Put up your hood and go. Leave us to find this weather worker.”

“You will tell me what you find?” Shango asks, covering his head.

“We will.”

When Shango is gone, Anson turns to the other two.

“Shall we seek news together or separately?”

“Separately,” Dakar says. “We will cover more ground. We can meet here in a few hours.”

Eddie nods agreement. He has been in Nigeria long enough now that he feels comfortable both with Monamona and with his new persona.

“I wish we had television,” he says as he puts on his shoes. “I’d love to see what the world news is making of this.”

“I doubt they’ve even noticed,” Anson replies. “Who ever notices what happens in Africa? A tragedy involving a single child becomes news in the United States, but a famine that devastates thousands of African children is never mentioned.”

Dakar agrees. “A few meteorologists are going to be damn puzzled, but I doubt anyone else will ever hear.”

“Won’t the Nigerian government ask for help?” Eddie asks.

“Help for what? Dealing with a windstorm?” Dakar guffaws. “They’d be afraid of getting laughed at. Besides, asking for help would be showing weakness, and the only reason for showing weakness is to get foreign-aid money.

“No, for a while at least, the Nigerian government will stand and wait and watch. Remember, even in Yorubaland, Monamona is not the first city in size or importance. It doesn’t even have a college.”

Eddie nods, remembering things that he has long chosen to store at the back of his memory.

“I guess you’re right,” he says. “That leaves it up to us.”

“I’ll take the market again,” Dakar says.

Anson nods. “And I’ll take the orisha shrines. Eddie, that leaves the churches and mosques for you.”

“Good,” Eddie grins. “In my life I’ve pretended to practice so many different religions that I can pass as a member of any and all.”

“Meet here in three hours,” Dakar orders, very much military Ogun.

Anson twinkles. “I’ll bring lunch.”

In an office decorated in pure white, Lil Prima leans back in a chair upholstered in fine-grained leather and smiles at the man behind the desk.

Almost without volition, he smiles back, his teeth as white as his carpeting, his hair silvery. His suit is not white, but the precise shade dictated by the fashion of the moment, tailored by a shop that considers Armani one step from off the rack.

Normally, he considers himself the alpha-alpha in a world where men act far more ruthlessly than wolves. Today, however, he feels like he’s back in third grade with Mrs. Grundy the Formidable glowering at him from across the desk. The problem is, he has no idea why.

Lil Prima is beautiful, but almost every woman he encounters in the entertainment industry is beautiful. Those who are not signal danger, for their lack of physical advantage means that they made it to where they are by ability alone—always a frightening prospect.

But Lil Prima is beautiful: golden hair, green eyes, a figure that makes every fashion model he’s ever dated seem like a cardboard cutout. Her voice is spiced with a delicious hint of a French accent. She’s wearing a dress with a skirt so short that he can’t avoid staring at her perfect legs, opaque stockings, and a few highlights in expensive jewelry.

And when she smiles he has to glance at the notes he jotted before this meeting so he won’t forget what he was talking about. Why should such a delicious number make him feel like a boy—or like a randy adolescent with his mind in his crotch?

Clearing his throat he says, “As I was saying, since Blind Lion has had to cancel...”

“A pity, that,” Lil purrs, “about how the lead singer gets the laryngitis and the drummer falls and breaks his arm, no?”

“No.” The man shakes his head. “I mean, yes, a great pity. However, what it means is that an entire string of concert dates just opened up.”

“What would you like me to do for you?” Lil asks, green eyes pools in which he could drown.

The man bites his lip before his automatic response can come forth, a response that would have nothing at all to do with concert dates, and quite a lot to do with things more primal.