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    Changa's Safari: Changa's Safari, #3
    Changa's Safari: Changa's Safari, #3
    Changa's Safari: Changa's Safari, #3
    Ebook254 pages6 hours

    Changa's Safari: Changa's Safari, #3

    By Milton Davis

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    About this ebook

    After returning from the east with his dhows filled with wealth, a sudden tragedy forces Changa and his crew to set out again. Follow Changa as he seeks to regain his fortunes and comes closer to his destiny!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMilton Davis
    Release dateSep 9, 2016
    ISBN9781536524055
    Changa's Safari: Changa's Safari, #3

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      Book preview

      Changa's Safari - Milton Davis

      ISBN Number: 978-0-9960167-0-4

      Cover art by Stanley Weaver, Jr.

      Cover Design by Uraeus

      Layout/Design by Uraeus

      Edited by

      Manufactured in the United States of America

      First Edition

      AFRICA UNBOUND

      By Charles R. Saunders

      Changa Diop is an inimitable personage in the annals of sword-and-soul fiction: a fierce warrior, a shrewd merchant, and an intrepid sea-captain.  And Changa’s creator, Milton Davis, has envisioned a singular setting for his hero’s magical and mercantile adventures: the Africa and Asia of the fourteenth century, an Old World milieu that combines legend and history in a way in which the line between the two blurs into invisibility, and the surroundings become mystical and intriguing.

      In the previous two Changa volumes, the warrior-merchant – who is originally from the Kongo region but came of age in the cities of the East Coast of Africa – has journeyed not only through the rest of East Africa, but also across the Indian Ocean to such fabled places as India, China, Indonesia, and locations that cannot be found on medieval – or modern, for that matter – maps. He gains and loses fortunes and friends, and is haunted and hunted by a past that continually threatens to undo him.

      Although Changa shares the same vulnerabilities as all humans, his indomitable strength of character always gives him a fighting change against the most formidable and insuperable of odds. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he is a master at the use of the unique throwing-knives that are the deadliest weapon of his native region.

      In this third volume, Changa’s business – and his fate – doesn’t take him across the sea. He treks within Africa itself, a continent referred to as dark only by the ignorant. In fourteenth-century reality, however, Africa was festooned with cities and cultures that glittered like jewels. The names of the places to which Changa and his companions – especially his partner, a sorceress and healer named Panya – are drawn echo through a history that was long-lost, but is now being rediscovered:

      Mombasa ...

      Sofala ...

      Kanem ...

      Bornu ...

      Oyo ...

      Songhai ...

      Nupe ...

      These are places that were as noteworthy during Changa’s time as any location in Europe, Asia, or the Americas, and spoken of with a sense of awe and wonder.

      Not only is Changa a compelling character; so is his setting. Between character and setting, Milton has crafted an amalgam of power and peril that defines the man – Changa – and the continent – Africa. This is Elder Africa, a land that shone brightly before the descent of the dark curtain of colonization and demoralization from which it continues to recover.

      Now turn the page, and join Changa on his latest safari.

      To Pop

      Thanks for listening

      Kitabu Cha Saba

      (Book Seven)

      Master of the Lake

      The screams haunted him. It did not matter they came from the throats of thieves attempting to steal goats and grain. Their desperate cries would soon join the melancholic cacophony of lamentations that echoed in his head every night. They would join those that had gone before them.

      The cries subsided as the toxin took effect. The acrid smell of human waste cut through the humid air, forcing him to turn away and cover his nose. As the thieves fell still four stout women clothed in white cloth and beaded head wraps cut them free of their restraints then bound their naked bodies with long strips of cotton cloth, encasing them like a spider’s feast. After wrapping them, the women poured a sweet smelling liquid over them from black calabashes. When the gourds were empty the women bowed to him, a look of relief on their faces. It was good fortune the thieves had come, otherwise one of the women or one of their family members would lie at his feet, wrapped and soaked in preparation for what was to come.

      The porters entered moments later, four heavily muscled men wearing white loincloths, their faces hidden by wooden masks. They lifted the thieves from the floor then onto their broad shoulders like bags of sorghum. The thieves were still, their moving chests the only indication they were still alive. The porters carried them outside and he followed. The full moon shone like a mock sun, illuminating the grasses and lake with its pale light. The porters tied the thieves to donkeys then took them to as close to the lake shore as they dared. They untied their cargo, laid them on their backs, and then hurried away.

      He did not leave. Each time he said he would not watch; each time he remained. Was it morbid fascination, or did he hope that it would not appear, that this would finally be done? He struggled for an answer as the lake water began to rise and fall like an inland tide. The surface roiled as fish fled to the surface, some so desperate as to seek refuge on the rocky shore. Mambas emerged, the huge reptiles fleeing into the nearby bush. He stood and then backed away as the lake calmed. It would not end. It would never end.

      Thick, pale tentacles broke the lake’s surface, illuminated by a sick green glow. They collapsed onto the shore then slithered around the encased bodies. The thieves barely responded as the tentacles contracted, still in the throes of the toxin. Then the tentacles slid away, dragging their offering with them. He prayed as they sank into the waters with the offering, hoping that this would be the last time, but knowing that it would not be. The master of the lake must be fed. He waited until the bodies disappeared under the black waters, and then trudged back to the village.

      -1-

      Familiar Shores

      The wind from the approaching storm piled the ocean into towering waves that crashed against the hulls of the fleeing dhows. Baharia clambered bare-footed across the decks and up the masts hoping to outrun the menacing maelstrom. Moving among them was a grim shirtless man whose broad shoulders and wide chest seemed as tense as his brown bearded face. He watched his crew hurry about then studied the encroaching dark clouds and black rain. They would make it to safe harbor, but not the harbor he wished.

      Changa Diop wondered what he had done to deserve such circumstances. In a matter of months he’d witnessed the death of a dear friend, the disappearance of another he considered a brother and the departure of a man who was like an uncle to him. Though the crew around him was the best these angry seas knew, the losses cut deep. His only comfort was that amongst it all he’d come to love a woman whose beauty was second only to her strength. That woman approached him through the smattering rain, a look of concern on her face.

      There is nothing I can do, Panya said, her tone apologetic. Sometimes Oya must have her way.

      Changa placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. So be it. It’s not like we’ve haven’t weathered storms before.

      So why are you so concerned? Panya asked.

      The dhows will definitely suffer damage, he replied. This means we’ll have to seek port sooner than I wished.

      Mombasa, Panya said.

      Changa nodded.

      Maybe it won’t be so bad, she said. It’s been years since we left.

      Changa answered her with a skeptical gaze. He shrugged then headed to the helm. Nafasi, Mikaili’s former apprentice now the new navigator, struggled with the wheel as he shouted orders over the howling wind. Mikaili trained the young Swahili well, but Changa still couldn’t help thinking they would have been far beyond the storm’s grasp if his old friend learned hands gripped the wheel.

      Nafasi’s expression mirrored Changa’s thoughts.

      I’m sorry, bwana, he said. It seems we will not beat the storm.

      Have the men secure the decks, Changa said. We’ll take our blows then heal in Mombasa.

      Nafasi relayed Changa’s orders to the crew then drummed them to the other dhows. Moment later the storm overtook them with unexpected fury. Changa struggled on deck with the strongest of his crew, fighting to keep his dhow intact and his men on board. The wind’s rage increased, tearing at the sails and rocking the Kazuri like a twig in a swift stream.

      Get those sails down! Changa shouted. The baharia were clambering across the slick deck to obey his command when the dhow lurched, throwing everyone off their feet. Changa slid across the deck then slammed hard against the bulwark.

      Bwana Diop! Nafasi’s yell cut through the howling wind. Changa looked to see his young navigator gesturing frantically to the opposite bulwark. Changa’s eyes followed Nafasi’s finger; the sight that incited fear in the man sparked resignation in Changa.

      A pair of massive gnarled hands gripped the opposite side. Changa grasped the bulwark rim against his back then pulled up to his feet.  He took a hard look at the men forming around him. There was fear in their eyes but their hands sought the swords at their sides. They were Kazuri baharia; they would face whatever heaved  onto the ship. But Changa knew their efforts would be fruitless.

      Get everyone below, he said. Now!

      Nafasi rounded up the baharia then led them away. Changa unfastened the throwing knives attached to his waist belt, weapons forged from the iron of his homeland. They were the only arms that could kill the creature rising over the rail.

      The beast collapsed onto the deck with a thud that shook the wood beneath Changa’s feet. It stood twice Changa’s height on thick legs punctuated by wide webbed feet. Slick grey skin stretched over its bulging muscles, its cold eyes wide and unblinking. Its face resembled that of a great fish, the wide mouth opening and closing in time with the gill slits on its thick neck. Long muscled arms hung where fins should be, its clawed hands almost scraping the deck. Despite its frightening visage Changa did not hesitate in his attack; this was an old foe he would never be rid of until the day he returned to his homeland of Kongo.

      The tebo lumbered toward him, raising its massive arms over its thick head. Changa continued his headlong assault until the creature brought its arms down to strike. He darted to the left and the tebo’s fists slammed into the deck, sending wood splitters in every direction. The floorboards shuddered and Changa stumbled; the deep cut he hoped to deliver to the beast’s torso became only a minor scratch. The tebo twisted, swinging its right arm at Changa’s head. Changa ducked the clumsy swipe then stepped close to the beast, slashing upward with both knives. The tebo’s thick skin opened from its midsection to its neck. A putrid smell hit Changa almost like a blow; he stumbled away then was struck by the beast’s left claw.

      His knives flew from his hands as he flipped head over feet from the powerful blow. The bulwark prevented him from flying into the ocean, but such luck was short lived. The tebo wrapped its arms around him before he could recover then carried Changa over the bulwark and into the churning sea. They plunged into the water, sinking under the surface like a living anchor. Changa struggled to hold his breath as he pounded on the beast’s shoulder and head. The tebo’s grasp tightened as they descended deeper into the darkening ocean. Changa kept striking the beast though his blows seemed useless. Only the iron of Kongo could kill the beast and his knives were far from his weakening hands. With the last of his breath escaping him Changa swept his eyes over the beast and found what he searched for. The tebo’s gills fluttered on both sides of its thick neck, sifting life giving oxygen from the water. With the last his strength Changa plunged his hands into the organs. The tebo shuddered then tightened its grip, no longer content to let the waters claim Changa’s life.  Changa gripped the gills’ innards then ripped them away. The tebo flung Changa away, its small mouth forming a pain induced oval as it clawed at its damaged neck. Changa swam for the surface, fighting against the instinct to open his mouth and inhale. His head cleared the surface just as he lost his battle, the salt tinged air the sweetest he’d ever inhaled.

      Instead of the swirling waves of a stormy sea he was surrounded by calm blackness. Above him dark clouds still held sway; unleashing bolts of lightning that lit the otherwise dim surroundings. No rain splattered his head and no wind pushed him about. It was if he was held in a dome of glass protected from the storm’s fury. A knowing smile came to his face.

      Oya’s daughter, he said.

      His hands burned. Deep cuts crisscrossed his palms and fingers where he held the tebo’s gills. The briny water caused them to sting, but Changa was used to dealing with such pain. Stranded in the ocean surrounded by churning seas, he had no choice but to suffer silently until help arrived.

      A familiar bow breached his bubble of solitude. The Kazuri sped toward him, chasing away the calm protecting him from the storm. Rain pattered against his head.

      There he is! he heard Panya shout.

      The Kazuri veered away from him. Baharia lined its bulwark, as rope flew from their hands. Changa grabbed the closest then gritted his teeth as he pulled himself up the side. The baharia grabbed him as soon as they could reach him and hauled him over the bulwark like a prized fish.

      He tumbled onto his back. Panya was on him immediately, covering his face with kisses.

      From one drowning to another, he managed to say.

      Nafasi loomed over her shoulder, a satisfied grin on his face.

      Welcome back, nahoda. You chose a strange time to go for a swim.

      His words rang of Mikaili, which made Changa smile even broader.

      My friend insisted, Changa said. Unfortunately he was not a good swimmer.

      Can you walk? Panya asked.

      I think so, he said.

      Changa stood and his men cheered. The storm waned, but the winds still blew strong and the rain still fell.

      Everyone back to work! Nafasi shouted. This storm is not through with us!

      Panya gestured to Changa and he followed her below deck to her cabin. He sat on her bunk as she rummaged through her shelves and concoctions for the right combination of salves and herbs to heal his wounds. Changa grinned as she flittered about. She was still taking care of him, healing his body and spirit from the constant onslaught of Usenge. Despite the experience, wisdom and the talisman he’d gathered throughout his journeys Panya was the true reason for his endurance. It was good to have the uncertainty lifted between them and to enjoy her love full and uninhibited.

      She turned suddenly, a green urn clutched in her right hand and a thin bottle of a clear liquid in the other.

      This should do it, she said. Her smiled faded and her eyes went wide.

      Changa, your hands!

      Changa looked at his hands. They’d swollen to twice their normal size, the blood oozing from them the color of the tebo’s ichor.

      What is this? he managed to say before pain bolted up his arms then struck his head like a hammer. He blacked out.

      You continue to live. You are persistent, I must admit.

      Changa opened his eyes to blackness. He groped about, feeling his nude body but nothing else. He tried to stand but the shadows held him in place better than any chain. A faint light appeared before him, resembling the sun rising over a distant horizon. The light rose for a moment then meandered toward him, growing brighter as it approached. After what seemed like ages the light hovered before him. Changa’s senses were overwhelmed with a familiar stench.

      Usenge, he spat.

      The viscous laugh flowed around him like pus. Yes, Changa.

      So this is where I slay you? Changa said.

      There was no laughter this time, only a sensation of anger that made Changa smile.

      You dream, son of Mfumu, Usenge replied. Your blood is thin like an old man. You will die at my hands like your father if you continue this farce.

      Changa’s invisible smile grew wider. "You speak as if I have a choice, ndoki. Every step I’ve taken from the day I left Kongo was to bring me back home. I will return, and I will kill you."

      "Forget your promise. It is beyond your powers to fulfill. Stay in Sofala and marry your Yoruba woman. Do so, and my tebo will bother you no more.

      Changa’s smile seemed to ease the darkness. I sense fear in you, Usenge. Nothing you say can keep me from returning home.

      The man speaks, but how does the boy who saw his father slain feel?

      Images coalesced about Changa, visions of that fateful day. Thandeka, his mother’s personal servant, held his face between her calloused hands, forcing him to view his father’s execution. Usenge gripped the execution sword in his bloody hands, his true face obscured by his hideous war mask. Behind the usurper Changa’s mother and sisters wept, flanked by Usenge’s warriors. Fear and anger rushed through Changa, but it was the fear that took root, a fear sparked by an eight year old boy who thought he might be discovered and killed as well. But that fear was replace by a deeper emotion, one placed in his breast by the eyes of his father the moment before the

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