Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(37)

He grinned at the idea, then blew out a breath so long that I wasn’t sure if he was joking.

“I don’t worry about hyenas,” he said, overenunciating so that his lips flexed. “I worry about the sun. We have to find water and shade. Even my people, who should know this, stay in the light too long and get burned. Three days ago, an old man, half-crazy from the heat, came down from the cliffs so badly sunburned, he could barely stand up! Sixty years old! Lived every day of his life out in the bush.”

I grunted my agreement, and silence crept over us for a long moment. We watched the last of the fire, the ashen branches forming smoldering, shifting caves that throbbed with orange light, then dulled to gray and crumbled. I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to leave me alone or not.

“I saw you in the … the Lani village,” said Mnenga.

“The Drowning,” I said.

“Drowning, yes. I was up here.”

“I saw.”

He smiled, pleased, as if this meant more than the literal meaning of the words.

“Will you move on tomorrow?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“The nbezu are stubborn creatures,” he said. “When they find the grass they like and a little water, they do not move. Also, soon we may not be able to come here, so we use it while we can.”

“Why not?” I asked, surprised by how much his inconsequential words soothed me.

Mnenga shook his head. He was still smiling with his mouth, but his eyes were troubled. “We have always been able to use this land,” he said. “But our leaders say it will perhaps be traded.”

“To who?”

“White men in the city. I do not know their names.”

“For what?”

“I do not know. ‘Development,’ they say,” he added, poking the dusty earth with a stick.

“Out here? Development of what?”

He shrugged. “Not just here,” he said. “All over. Pieces of land our families have shared for generations. They will be fenced. We will not be allowed in.”

“Does this involve the Grappoli?” I asked.

He pulled a quizzical face. “Why the Grappoli?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging with a sudden sense of defeat. “Just something I heard. Are you being paid for the land?”

He smiled mirthlessly. “Some people will be paid,” he said. “Some of our elders say we will get iron tools from the factories. They say it is good for us, that most of the land is useless mountain slopes, not good for grazing. Perhaps they are right. But no one is asking us. The tribal leaders make deals in the city and then tell us afterwards. It is not good.”

“You have representatives in the government,” I said. “You can’t talk to them?”

“We talk through our leaders, but in the end, we must go through Sohwetti, and he wants to sell.”

Farrstanga Sohwetti was the chief of the Unassimilated Tribes, the most powerful Mahweni in the country.

“He won’t talk to your elders?”

“Oh, he will talk,” said Mnenga knowingly. “He is very good at talking. But I do not think he will listen.”

“Why not?”

“You know where he lives?”

I shook my head.

“Not in my village,” he said. “Not in any village. I have a beehive hut,” he added proudly. “One day, I will have a family there.”

I smiled but pushed the conversation forward. “Sohwetti does not live in a beehive hut?” I said.

Mnenga shook his head. “He has a big house in the city. His friends are white people. Government people. Rich people. He meets with our council, but he is not one of us. Not anymore. He likes his new life. I think that if he was paid enough, he would sell away all our homeland. And for a handful of nails and hinges and belt buckles, maybe a few guns and some money, my people will say yes. And you know what? I cannot blame them. We are tired of being poor.”

His smile was gone now, but he looked more sad than angry, lost, so that I was suddenly sorry for him and, without thinking, took his hand.

He smiled with surprise and gratitude but said nothing.

I don’t know how long we would have sat there in silence, as I felt the polished smoothness of his fingers in mine, but at that moment, the satchel at my feet moved.

Mnenga leapt to his feet, startled, and his right hand reached for the spear he had laid on the ground. He raised the weapon to shoulder height as a mewing sound came from the basket.

Horrified, I seized the spear point, and the young man’s brow creased.

“Cat?” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, my heart beating fast. “A kitten.”

“I thought snake,” he said, lowering the spear. “Can I see?”

I shook my head, but as I did so, the baby began to cry.

Mnenga’s eyes widened. “Not cat,” he said.

I looked down, ashamed of the stupid lie. “Not cat,” I admitted, stricken once more by a sense of failure.

“Boy or girl?” said Mnenga.

“Girl,” I said miserably.

“She is yours?”

“No,” I replied, adding a little desperately, “a friend’s. But no one can know.”

“I see,” said Mnenga, nodding.