1891: The High Priestess
High Priestess Unwannah watches two big black birds, warily, as they fly over the beaten path from her hidden position by the cave's wide entrance. They turn about to swoop back over the healing caves, before returning to fly low over the roughly hewn walkway, again. To a natural eye, they will seem normal, but just a second more, and she sees them disappear in mid-flight. That wizard. That wizard is a dangerous man. It repeats in her mind, this thought, as she hurries to go back inside the depths of the connecting caves, spread out like burrows into the cool earth, like tunnels running through a stone mountain, intersecting, climbing, even descending. She hurries in her old raggedy bones, out of breath, feeling frightened by unfolding events, powerless to stop it, yet she must do... something. When reaching the repository, she stands perfectly still, as if, confused. Her mind wanders. Plantain trees sagging with the weight of ripe plantains, their wide leaves rustling in the strong winds. The winds come from the sea. A low chant follows her view from the plantain trees, to a white sand beach by rolling ocean waves. The chant is a low hum. She has been hearing it in her brain all day. It is Solomon! A blink later, her mind returns by a sheer force of will power. It is the soy bean milk Mayen prepared for her to drink. It is something that this young shield maiden always does, every other morning. But... How long has she been quite immobile? How long? There is no time, no time! She turns into another long tunnel, her hands trembling, her dry lips moving soundlessly, trying to remember what it is that she must do. What must she do? Something! She had put it in a song. She hums the tune of her song to break the spell, in the melody of Solomon's hum. Fires of ancient dry woods! Eat up the rebel roots! Till only one is left! The one to destroy, that will loose hold on her soul. A soul for all, and all for a soul, mercy prevails! Sobs wrack her chest as tears flow from fading eyes. Idara. They will come from all the realms to cast her soul into bondage, into chaos, into the depths of darkness, into the unbroken chains. How to tell her? How to even explain? She finally enters a hidden space full of scented, small purple shrubs growing all over the ground. The sight of them as she hums her tune helps her to remember what she must do. Back in the outer caves, where the healing waters sit in warm blue pools, shield maidens noisily troop in, boisterous from the war. They drove the enemy into a helpless retreat and then a plea to surrender. If they notice a light smoke wafting through the air, they are too busy with their large kegs of palm wine to care. A fine perfume is everywhere! In the night, the people will shout their praises to their king, to their ancestors, to the bonfire of the oracle! The fine perfume enhances their festive mood, it comes from that secret enclave the high priestess Unwannah went to, where she has set the shrubs ablaze. They all burn to their roots, there is nothing left, save one she holds with frail hands, letting it soak up her tears as she returns to the cave entrance, to deliver it to the messengers of the king, who arrive, just in time. Hours after she sits on her bed in her quarters, weeping still, for Idara. The young woman in question is less than thirty minutes away, she is very busy, as a shield leader should be after a hard won victory. The year is 1891 and it's a hot afternoon in the month of March. Over a hundred Nsidung warriors watch her move across the open courtyard, tending to the wounded, with a mixture of animosity, reluctant admiration and pride. She deserves to be appointed Tribe Custodian. In the battle with Ugep cannibals today, she defended Akampa boundary with skill and precision. She is a warrior to the bone, with a figure that is too seductive to be wasted on the virgin stones of a High Priestess of Canaan.
"Some say, she has the gift."
"It matters not."
"She stirs many loins, even bloody from battle. I'm glad the title of High Priestess evades her."
"I say, it matters not. Her father is Ibibio. They have no business in Efik lands. They have no business here, in Canaan!"
The harsh whispers continue as she bravely works the courtyard, and she hears all their bitter grudges; she knows that her Ibibio origins is the problem.
The rains in the kingdom of Canaan always start the year as rude visitors at night. The people believe the creation of the world, began at night. It is how they count their days. It is in fact, forty days, to the Night of First Rain, and the day had begun with a battle cry. Messengers from Akampa border arrived with news of savage killings, the Ugep cannibals once again in another boundary clash, came upon sleeping villagers in the dead of night, hacking heads and roasting flesh with unholy green fires. The Tripod King, The Obong, gave the order to warriors to defend Akampa.
She did not even clean her teeth with bitter root, nor bathe in the stream. Her armour covered her cotten shift to her knees, her sword and shield in hand before her mother, Unyime the beautiful, could say a prayer to the white man's God. There were just fifteen shield maidens trained to fight alongside the warriors in Canaan; fourteen attend to and protect the High Priestess. The fifteenth Shield maiden is always The Custodian of ways. Idara is not a very religious female. She detests the wooden images used in shrines, and she usually smiles a thank you to The Owner after a hearty meal with a sheepish look at the big blue sky; but this is just about it.
Ugep cannibals are ruthless savages that pay no tribute to the Tripod King or his emissaries. They obey no laws. They live like spirits in the deep forests and hunt human heads in the blinding heat of noon, using strange music, melodies that put the listener into deep sleep. They have possession of ancient magic, one of which is the dreaded green fire. She has many bruises, deep cuts, and crispy bites that smolder long after the fires were put out with wet sand. In the cool of the setting sun, she finally makes her way to the healing water of Unwannah's caves.
The high priestess's dwelling is a well carved out network of aromatic caves which give a common sanctuary to the tribe, where pools of clear blue water are scattered around, scented with herbs and warm from source, a geyser hot spring sprouting out of a center rock. Idara does not hesitate to undress and sink gratefully into one of the pools. Men are strictly forbidden to enter after sundown.
Which is why she asks,
"Wet sand, Unwannah?"
The breathy voice that replies comes from a distance behind her, weaving inbetween pillars,
"Was it not helpful?"
"There is only one thing that can wet sand by miles in seconds. And it will take a gifted one to use it properly. But I did not see you at the boundary lines. I saw that evil man, instead."
"Unfortunately, my child, your destiny involves many evil men: be specific."
"Solomon of Etoi!"
"Oh yes, your kinsman."
"The ibibio blood running through his veins is not the same as mine!"
"I wish your father were similarly persuaded."
"That's another topic. How could you let him defile the repository with his abominable presence?"
"The Obong commanded it."
"What!"
"And, you'll tell no-one. Hush now!"
Idara clamps her mouth shut. Two shield maidens enter the enclave carrying trays of a butchered cow's bloody entrails. The lightest touch on her face makes her jump. She watches old Unwannah put a finger to her lips and nods her head. Something is wrong. The high priestess does not show her whole face, but uses her long gray dreadlocks as curtains hiding her eyes. Idara grabs her wrist firmly, speaking only after the footsteps recede, "What else, did Solomon take?"
"Apart from Gukai? Codex."
There is a moment of stunned silence. Then-
"The Codex? What is this? You have never showed it to me before!"
"Remember your place," Idara releases her wrist, "-and lower your voice, even as I whisper. The times have changed, my child. Yesterday, you were honoured in the market square as Aydee, the Tribe Custodian, keeper of the ways; it may be an old pet name, but it's a new, heavy burden to bear. Enduring through time, there cannot be one without the other. Old and new. Past and present. It is there, it is written even now, on the wall. Can you see it too, my child?"
Idara searches the cave walls with feverish eyes.
Night has fallen.
The sounds of drums and chanting drift from below the cave rocks in the valley. People shall feast in victory tonight, to celebrate the win against the Ugep cannibals. Shield maidens helped to prepare the meats, and she should be seated at the king's feet, observing the festivities, and the high priestess should be officiating....
Unwannah drifts toward the pillars with wobbly steps. Idara gets out of the pool and dresses quickly, in the fresh wrappers kept for bathers by heaps of luminous stones that skirt the paths to the pools. She hurries after the high priestess, who resumes whispering at her approach,
"The Codex is a plant that took sides with the darkness, when there was war beyond the skies. The plants and animals which yielded to the darkness are condemned in judgement. They are festive pines worshipped by dragon seed; they are herbs of chaos, and hostage, like, Ganja."
"What does it do?"
"It binds two different and opposite elements together, in seamless unity of utter conflict. It joins to be three but turns three into one, into what it should not be."
"Why did you----"
"That was the last Codex; it grows only in this cave, no where else in this world will you find it."
"Then why did you----"
"Solomon said he could multiply it in three yellow moons. The Obong did not seek my counsel. Come, child. Let me show you what I saw..."
They entered her personal quarters. Two shield maidens wait by her straw bed holding her ceremonial regalia, but she waves them away, and they leave, in silent obedience. Unwannah motions for her to lie on the bed. Something is wrong with the high priestess, she looks drained of all physical strength, as if she moves by sheer will power. Idara lays on the bed, but can't voice her concern fast enough. Showers of shimmering, soft dust falls on her like a blanket and she gasps, sitting bolt upright, her hands wiping away the copious starry dust,
"Wh-what----s-stop---!"
Unwannah isn't there anymore. When the dust clears, she is outside, under the humid heat of mid-day. Confused, she tries to recognize her surroundings. It looks like the path that runs through her father's farm, but, how did she get here? Where is Unwannah? Is this a dream?
"Idara!"
"Idara what's wrong?"
"Idara where are you?"
Voices cry out all around her so suddenly, she covers her ears, cowering in fright, but as they continue to call out to her in mounting urgency, she realizes they are her peers, some of them, neighbours, sounding so close its like they're invisible or, she is invisible?
"I'm here...."
"Something is happening to her!"
"Idara!"
"Nothing is ha---"
"I hear her but I can't see her!"
"Why is she screaming?"
"I'm not scre----"
Her breath catches in her throat as her legs are yanked from under her. As she falls back screaming, invisible hands fist around her ankles and drag her into the bushes. She tries to get up, the warrior in her rains blows at the air, the air feeling solid in some places, until her hands are pulled up above her head and held apart in grips of iron. Her kicks are futile, her assailants many! Terrified beyond anything she has ever felt, Idara shouts for help at the top of her voice until a smelly damp rag is thrust into her mouth and almost down her throat. This only makes her struggle even more.
That's when she hears him laugh. Why? Why would he do this to her? How was it she couldn't see them? How was it the women couldn't see what is happening? With all her strength she tries to fight them, but at least, four invisible men hold her down. She screams until the dirty rag is pulled out, and frail, feeble arms go about her trembling shoulders, "Wake up, my child," the voice entreats soothingly, but her eyes remain squeezed shut as she weeps long and hard.
"It has not happened yet."
Unwannah. The old woman holds her hot body on the bed protectively, crooning to her softly,
"It is not yet...I had to show you, what I saw, Idara...wake up, my child."
Idara!
Idara what's wrong?
Idara where are you?
Solomon said he could multiply it in three yellow moons. The Obong did not seek my counsel. Come, child, let me show you what I saw...
So real. It was so real, "I couldn't see them! Are they his warriors? I heard him laughing, Unwannah, why? W-why w-would h-he do that to me? The women were there, they heard it happen! But---but they couldn't see m-meee!" Fresh sobs wrack her shoulders as she wails.
The old woman falls silent, brooding. When Idara finally quietens, she continues to whisper secrets...
The Codex needs a corrupted host to get activated. Its very wicked, very dangerous. My child; this door is opened by the sins of a father. Solomon does not work alone! Beware the Shadows of Mist! Old and new; enduring through time; there cannot be one without the other; and the custodial line cannot be broken. Love will find a way, but the evil darkness, when it comes, it must not triumph. Hold back! Resist! Overcome it!
"Did you hear me, my child?"
Idara looks at her face and gasps. The gray dreadlocks are combed backwards by impatient fingers, the eyes of the high priestess revealed. Her eyes are vacant, white, no pupils and no irises.
"Unwannah!!!"
"Hush now. Go, go, go to the festivities! Wear my gown and tell them, the gods have not released me. But hear me," they both stand from the straw bed, still holding on to each other,
"Idara, you must go through it. I have searched and seen that this dark tunnel is your destiny. There is no way out, but to go through. You will need the Lion of the tribe..."
"A lion? You mean, of a pride? Where will I find this Pride?" The kingdoms of the south do not have lions. Does it mean she must travel to the north?
"I don't mean... He is not a..." Unwannah's head tilts to the side. She hears something! Her voice gets even lower, "-don't trust the other shield maidens ...time has changed, my child. Oh my dear child! Did you hear all I said?"
"I will get five lions, if I can!"
The old woman gulps, as if her throat has something in it that she is trying to force down; she repeats herself gently, "There is no way out but through..." then her head tilts again, sharply.
"But, Unwannah----"
Suddenly, the high priestess pushes her, "Go!"
"B-but----"
She whispers urgently, "Go now, I say!" And she thrusts her regalia at her, Idara catching hold of it, trying to ask one last question, but the old woman is nowhere to be seen. Has she vanished?
What she hears now, is the heavy footfall of a large man approaching these private quarters, and soon enough, his shadow falls across the pillars. Idara slips away through a back exit she has known since she was three years old.
Men are forbidden after sundown. Who is he? Is Unwannah afraid of him?
Hours later, at the height of all the merry making, shield maidens run to the bonfire and throw themselves on the ground, renting their garments with their bare hands, wailing and rolling all over the sand.
The high priestess of Canaan, is dead.
†***†***†****†***†***†
PRESENT DAY
DR. JAY
Military Intelligence Section 6 (MI6) Headquarters; Vauxhall, London
Semper Occultus
The way he straightens his tie, you'd think he is about to see the queen. The giant oak doors open by remote, as the Director General's robot AI announces his presence,
Justice, Benedict Hall....your 7 a.m right on time, Director.
"Good of you to join me, Jay," the director says.
"You asked to see me, Sir."
"Impeccable timing, as always!"
"Thank you, Sir," Dr. Jay wonders at the reason for his summons, especially after he'd tendered a formal letter of resignation, last week. Truth be told, he is fed up with the violence sometimes involved in each assignment. Is it a final mission, perhaps?
"Well then! Don't just stand there like a lifeless mannequin! Come closer."
He blends in with the rest of the breakfast party: three other senior agents, dressed as he was in black suit and tie. He recognizes them almost immediately even as they tilt their heads in silent acknowledgement.
Tom Price; two tours in Afghanistan. Salem Hartford; two tours in Iraq. Rodney Sheldon; black zone. Black zone is for the recycled; the ones supposedly killed on active duty but brought back to serve with their memory wiped clean, and way too much metal embedded in them through reconstructive surgeries. They're sometimes called clones.
"What are we looking at, Jay?"
He peers at the hand drawn map spread out across the table. The artist uses chocolate sauce and peanut butter. The directors grubby fingers tells the rest of the story.
"Nigeria, Sir; Calabar River Basin."
"And, what's down there, Jay?"
His eyebrows raise a notch. Tom coughs, Salem reaches for a crunchy spring roll and Rodney answers with a soft voice, "A secret tunnel."
The director finds a napkin and scrubs furiously at his fingers, "Not just any tunnel. It might lead us into the castle, if what we suspect is correct; blast it! Did you see my...eh, spectacles, Tom?"
Ten minutes goes by in a frenzied search for the unfortunate spectacles, which, Mr. Norris, the directors fat ginger cat, crushes with a squeal and a left paw the moment it is sighted on the pianoforte.
Ten minutes after that, Dr. Jay finds himself alone with the capricious MI6 Boss in his boudoir, watching his personal valet attempt to squeeze his round white bottom into a pair of sharp pencil cut trousers.
"You're going alone on this one, Jay. I am well aware of your letter of resignation! It's actually being debated whether or not to reject it, most likely a request to retire in a few years would have been better received by the department; never the less, I know you hate to kill. This mission has no killing in it! It's urgent, terribly sensitive, and it can literally mean, the end of the world, as we know it. Not to flatter you, but there's no better agent suited to the job. Now, where was I?"
"The tunnel, Sir?"
"Ahh! The tunnel might just lead to a secret room inside the castle. The castle, is on the map; a magnificent, victorian design, built under the direct supervision of the Lord Admiral, Commander of Her Majesty's Battle Frigate Armada the HMS1; what the devil? Bahh! It's too tight, Neville! Goodness man! Do you want to squeeze me to death?"
"A secret room, Sir?"
The director's confused look lasts all of ten seconds, within which time, Neville performs several miracles with his trousers.
"Do you know how to foxtrot, Jay?"
"I-uh-" smooth baritone chuckles escape Dr. Jay's lips, surprising even himself, "-no, Sir, I don't believe I do."
"I see. Does the prospect of me hopping in my breaches amuse you?"
It did, "Oh no, not at all, Sir."
"Well then, I shan't require you to join a welcome party for Her Majesty tonight, at the Duke of Cornwall's Victory ball; where I may have to dance the foxtrot."
"Very good, Sir."
"But back to your new mission..."
"In Southern Nigeria, Sir."
Neville leaves them to make final adjustments to the directors tail coat, while the man lounges in an arm chair by his canopied bed, peering at a petri dish with a microscope. "What if I told you," the silence in the room stretches ten seconds again, matching pace with the proud ticking of a split pediment longcase big ben.
"What if I told you, that for many centuries, Caucasians have been communicating with aliens? What if, I told you, that these powerful, otherworldly beings have given bits and pieces of their essence to us, that in all our pursuit of gene code editing, we never found a way to seamlessly encode their powers into our DNA?"
Dr. Jay replays his quasi confession in his mind all the way to the airport. He's taken a taxi. The rain falls with a vengeance, and without any warning signs. It is a long drive.
"Are you with me, Jay?"
"Yes, Sir. Alien DNA."
"What if, I told you, that in the year 1891; a Nigerian did it? And, it even worked? And he tried to destroy it, but couldn't?"
"The hybrid, or the formula?"
"Both? But let's not abandon clarity; this mission is pretty clandestine enough as it is, ha ha! So, don't say formula, say, virus. It's a virus."
Of course, it was.
The airport is a beehive of activity. Moving along amidst a throng of so many different people soothes him. He is not so young in service to the British crown, as not to have wounds that will not heal or, questions that can't be easily answered. At this point, he is sure of only three things.
One, people in government are mad. Two, the numbness required to do his job is beginning to wear off. Three, if he fails this mission, it may literally, be the beginning of the end of the world, as he knows it.
"The problem is the Russians, Jay. They'll do anything to upend us! The Home Office got wind of a "Zombie" virus that they're working on, right now. And they know about the 1891 breakthrough. They call it the African Codex, and they need it, Jay. We've got the perfect cover for you: you'll replace a Mr. Wale Adekunle as that city's state secret service director. The official story, is that you're on a routine secondment from the British government, as part of some sort of security exchange program. I want you to go down there and retrieve that virus."
The problem isn't the Russians. Oh sure, everyone wants a new kind of military weapon; France wouldn't mind a little depopulation either. The Americans will make more money with big pharmaceuticals, forcing everyone to take a vaccine. The Chinese will give loans to purchase the vaccines, in exchange for the territory, a big piece at a time. He sighs.
He boarded within the hour. Staring at the thick, troubled gray, occasionally lit up from within by sparks of white lightning, as the plane soars to higher altitudes, he finally, after all his selfless years of meritorious service, admits to himself what the problem really is.
The problem, is seeing Salem Hartford through a slit in the thick window curtains, the night he arrives London. Salem Hartford; in the dead of night from across the street, watching his hotel window surreptitiously, his high forehead partially shielded with a beanie. Imagine Dr. Jay's surprise to see him again, at breakfast with the Boss. The problem, is six feet of Rodney Sheldon's mechanized muscle trying to be inconspicuous, hunking down in the third seat two rows ahead by the middle isle. Same flight to Nigeria? Except it isn't a coincidence, sighting the ginger red head of Tom Price by the news stand. Back at the airport, while waiting for the call to board, Dr. Jay watches him flip through the sports pages, pretending to read.
This is the oldest trick in the book. Get a loose end and put him to work. Extraction delivery details are only vague when there is no drop off. He isn't expected to be in the picture at this time. The Breakfast party will likely ensure that he is...
Black zoned.
Assassinated.
But what made him so expendable?
The problem isn't Russia, not as his director, Professor Charles Rothschilds Pitt III so confidently, fluidly asserts. No; the real culprit here, is neither a Gog or a Magog. It has always, always been the bloody British.