The silent hero

Photo: Noah Silliman

Moons have bloomed and bled.

A village remains untouched and unwitting.

Two boys–one man

Another rises, ready to do battle

 *

The sound of bells, unnecessary for Makplang and intended to replace the usual cock’s crow that woke its inhabitants, pealed through the village.

Sleep was of little consequence to him, considering unfolding events around him, both good and bad. On one hand, he and the other neophytes had completed chan and were preparing for the vwan rituals of initiation.

Two months.

One day.

Two months since he had last seen his mother and one more day until he could finally lay eyes on her again. Only this time, it wouldn’t be the eyes of the flabby child he had been then. It would be the hardened, sharpened gaze of the man he had become. Funny he didn’t feel much like a man at just thirteen.

He could still recall his last meeting with her: the two of them huddled near the flame of a single candle, sitting on the concrete floor of her hut, smoke making their eyes water. It was the day before Wat Jep, the last day he would spend in his mother’s arms before he and other boys of his age group would be stolen away for the chan and vwan rituals.

“What is it, mother?” He was irritated, annoyed to be kept awake when only the crickets were active.

His mother, Na’anep, hit the back of his head with her work-roughened palm.

“Do not talk to me that way. Now listen very carefully to me. You know what tomorrow is?”

Makplang decided the conversation would go faster if he wasn’t cheeky and merely shook his head in answer to her question.

“It is the beginning of chan.”

A chill enveloped his body. Although he knew that one day he would undergo the rituals of circumcision that were intended to separate him from his mother, it wasn’t easy to imagine the excruciating pain he’d bear when his foreskin was cut off.

“Did you hear me?” His mother’s slightly raised tone indicated her own impatience.

"Yes, mama. But how did you know?" Women weren't exactly privy to such details.

"That is my burden to bear. All you must be concerned with is how you conduct yourself. You must listen to everything you are told and show no fear when asked to perform a task."

“But how will I know if what I am asked to do is right?”

“Countless boys before you have undergone the same process you are about to endure and have emerged strong, brave men.”

"Like father?" A lump formed in his throat. His father had been killed when Makplang had barely been weaned off his mother's breasts. And not even by a wild animal while hunting or in a battle. It had been a common fever that deprived Makplang of the joy of a father-filled childhood. Now Makplang was about to become a man, and he wasn't there to witness it.

"Yes." The candle's flame reflected in the tears his mother refused to let fall. "Exactly like him."

“Will he be with me during the rituals?”

Na’anep moved to his side and held his head to her chest.

“We will always be with you.”

And they had. Through the weeks of isolated military-like training with his fellow neophytes, he had basked in the knowledge that his father was watching him and lending much-needed strength. When he had clamped his teeth hard to avoid expressing his pain in tears or screams during the actual circumcision, he'd felt his father’s pride from beyond the grave.

All that remained for the newly circumcised boys was vwan, introducing them to the nji, ancestral spirits. Everyone hoped that this would happen without a hitch despite the uneasy pallor that had descended on the village in recent days. A pallor that now gave Makplang a foreboding chill as the other boys came awake—dark-skinned boys that now bore the same lion tattoo on their heads like him.

"Young men." The call had all of them pausing their dressing and snapping to attention. Pale, early morning sunlight streamed in from the only door in the hut, barring them from seeing the caller's face. No matter, they knew that face like the back of their hands—dark like theirs, weather-beaten, furrowed from years of hard work.

“Mishkoom kum.” High priest.

The white-haired man smiled briefly at the greek chorus they had perfected. “Do you know what today is?”

A few of them nodded while some murmured in affirmation.

"It is the day you return to your mothers," he paused to gauge their reactions, which range from indifference to distaste, "but not to their bosoms. You return as their helpers and their protectors.

There is no time you are needed such as now." Ripples of unease passed over all of them, most struggling to hide theirs. “People dropping dead like flies, strange weather, blood mists. All bad omens.”

“But what of the kum mo?" one boy piped up, speaking their minds. "Shouldn't the deities be helping?"

The already firm expression on the mishkoom's face tightened as he clenched his jaw.

“Never question the gods. They will deal with the problem when the time comes and as they see fit.”

Makplang’s hackles rose in suspicion. If the gods were so helpful and benevolent, why hadn’t they gotten rid of the problem already? For that matter, what was the problem? He had been convinced that the Mishkoom would have used Paa divination to find out, but seeing his cagey behaviour, now he wasn't so sure.

“When the entire village is turned to dust?” another boy asked. His sentiments were echoed by everyone else until the entire hut was filled with murmurs. Apparently, their training couldn’t cure curiosity.

“Silence!” The mishkoom punctuated his command with a sharp strike of his spear on the ground and all murmurs ceased.  “Today is not a day for wild speculation and insolence. It is a day for celebration.”

He pointed the spear toward the pile of goat skins that matched his. “Now get dressed in your naar; we leave in an hour."

*

As Makplang dressed, he couldn’t get his mind off what the chief priest had said. Why hadn’t he told them what was wrong with the village? Surely the kum mo would have given him answers by now. Weeks had passed since the terrors had started, a new one occurring every few days.

First had come the blood mist that had enveloped the entire village and left all the newborn babies missing. Next, a swarm of locusts that ate up all the fonio required for special rituals, perhaps to keep anyone from communicating with Na’an, the supreme goddess. Since then, it had been more of the same inexplicable events: animals going mad for no reason, the moon disappearing for days, strange things.

He desperately hoped his mother was alright. He knew his uncles were keeping her company, preparing for his return. He whispered a short prayer to Na’an, begging her to keep them safe for him. Something was very wrong, and nobody wanted to acknowledge it.

“What are you thinking about?” Bala waved a hand in front of Makplang’s face to bring him back to earth.  

Makplang swatted his hand away and laughed a little. He and Bala had done everything together since childhood, but he knew if he told the shorter boy what was on his mind, he would simply tell Makplang to trust the mishkoom.

“Nothing much. Just wishing this day would hurry up and end.”

Bala sighed, his rapidly developing chest rising. “I know what you mean. I can’t wait to finally get home and begin hunting with my father.” His father was the chief hunter of their village.

Makplang wasn't exactly thrilled at the reminder that there would be no father to hoist him up when he returned home. Oh, he couldn't wait to see his mother, of course. It just hurt that the difference between himself and the other boys was that there was no father’s hut to begin sleeping in once he returned. There would be no father, period.

Bala must have seen the hurt on his face.

“I’m s-sorry. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean—”

"It's fine," Makplang saved him the trouble. "I'm just going to step out for a while, okay?"

Bala nodded and watched him push aside the flap in the doorway, leaving the room.

The morning sunshine and the trees and the greenery around him lifted Makplang’s mood a little. He could smell wet sand and freshly cut grass, probably the work of a hunter clearing a path somewhere. Their hut was hidden deep in the forest, away from prying eyes. The sound of a nearby waterfall made him realise he needed to relieve himself before they began their trek.

“If the gods were so helpful and benevolent, why hadn’t they gotten rid of the problem already? ”

He moved further away from the hut and deeper into the jumble of foliage. He noticed that the usual morning mist had gotten thicker and seeing had become difficult.

His walk was interrupted when he tripped on a stray branch and landed on the forest floor.

Hurt bloomed in his cheek and outstretched hands, and his eyes smarted. A trickle of urine ran down his leg, making him curse.

That was when he noticed the silence—pure, absolute silence that almost breathed.

Then he heard it—the rhythmic chanting and pounding of feet. Hands shaking, he swiped away the fog in front of him and squinted in horror.

One of the neophytes, Kumben, was dancing around a small fire, feeding it with pieces of—

Makplang’s vision went red and he turned to heave into the shrub nearest to him. He now knew where the babies went.

Shaking, he stumbled away from the scene in legs that threatened to give out. He knew he had been found out when the chanting stopped, and all the sounds of the forest resumed. With an extra burst of speed from Na’an knows where, he began to run. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he needed to go.

The darkness came sooner than he expected, enveloping him in a strange warmth and shutting off all his senses.

*

“Wake up.” A hand touched his face. He pushed it away.

"I said, wake up!" The last two words were punctuated with slaps, each harder than the former.

Makplang’s eyes popped open, and he was blinded momentarily by the sunlight streaming through the canopy of trees above him. Wait. That brightness.

It was noon.

Makplang scrambled from his prone position to his feet and took a step when a thin voice spoke.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Makplang whirled around and was struck speechless. The woman before him was strange, to say the least. She was garbed in a brown wrapper that had faded with age. Her stringy white hair framed a face that was sewn where her eyes should be. Her skin was impossibly smooth, even though he could sense that she was very old. He suddenly forgot his pressing need to get to the initiation ceremony.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Somebody that has been waiting for you.”

Makplang snorted. “How? I ended up here by accident.”

The woman tutted. “What an unbelieving child. That may yet be your salvation.”

"What does that mean?" The woman sounded crazier by the second. "And where are we?"

They were in a clearing with a carpet of grass and weeds with a stump in the middle.

"We are where we need to be. As for your other question, do you believe what your Mishkoom has told you about the mysterious goings-on?"

It didn’t matter what he thought. He wasn’t going to hold a conversation with some freak of nature that he was beginning to think was sot–a witch.

“It is not our place to question the kum mo. Can I go?”

“Don’t be a parrot.” The woman moved to sit on the stump. “You and I know there is evil afoot.”

Makplang’s body alternated between hot and cold, and he took a step backwards.

“What kind of evil?”

“You have borne witness to it. Your friend seeks to ascend to the table of the deities.”

“Kumben?” Makplang didn’t plan to, but he began to laugh. “That’s impossible.”

The woman’s lips remained in a thin line until his laughter petered out in embarrassment.

"Yes, it is. But he has been led to believe otherwise by whispering, malicious spirits. And if he is not stopped, he will simply keep trying."

Makplang now felt like a fool for laughing. This was no joke. Innocent children were already lost forever due to Kumben’s mad desires, no matter how improbable.

“But why would he want to attempt such a thing?”

“Maybe this was what being a man was about. Doing what was necessary for the good of those you loved. ”

In answer to his question, the woman beckoned him forward. He moved forward warily until her stretched out index finger poked his forehead. Suddenly, his mind was flooded with a reel of images.

Kumben as a child. Kumben learning of his father’s death at the hands of sot. Kumben destroying the protective effigies in his home in anger. Kumben sitting alone in the dark, whispering words no child should know.

The images shut off, and the world returned. Now he understood.

Revenge. That was all Kumben wanted.

Makplang could sympathise with his loss, but it didn't mean that he was in support of his methods, or even his endgame. For Kumben to be doing something so heartless and dangerous, Makplang knew he had reached the point of no return and had to be stopped. Those poor babies.

He focused his gaze on the woman once more. “How do we stop him?”

She cackled, her teeth surprisingly bone white.

"Not me, my child. Do not be fooled by my youthful countenance. I am too old and weak to do much these days. You are the one who will stop him.”

Makplang had no time to be surprised. The woman latched tightly onto his wrists and began to speak in a strange tongue. At first, nothing happened. Then he felt a little prick on his eyelid that soon grew into searing pain. A scream lodged in his throat but couldn't get out. It was then he noticed the threads around the woman's eyes had started to come loose.

Makplang's body felt like it was being filled with boiling water, and his vision got dark fast. When the woman let go of his arms, he stumbled backwards and finally screamed.

“What have you done to me?”

“I have given what you need. Now, if you want to save those neophytes from becoming kindling, repeat after me.”

It was as if Makplang was a puppet on strings. He couldn’t help but do as the woman commanded as if she pulled at some deep, primal part of him that had no choice but to obey.

The incantation the woman spoke to him seemed familiar for some reason. As he repeated the words, he felt the world move around him. It was like he was everywhere and nowhere. It was exhilarating, almost enough to make him forget. Power flowed through his limbs like liquid fire, nature in its entirety at his fingertips, awaiting his command. He could even feel the other side, yil nji. But he knew he didn’t need them for what he wanted to do.

 When he was through with the incantations, he fell silent, instinctively knowing what to do next. He sent his intentions through the ether but felt something snap before his work was complete.

The power bled away from him in a rush and he gasped, feeling lightheaded.

“What’s wrong? Are you taking your power back?” he asked. No answer came.

He whirled around, feeling for the woman.

“She is not here.” The voice that answered was feminine, but not the witch’s. This was more … ancient, otherworldly.

“Who are you? Where is the witch that was with me?” Makplang was getting tired of not knowing who he was talking to.

“She has paid her dues. It was not her place to bestow a power such as this without my consent.”

Makplang growled in anger at her callous tone, even as his mind dimly registered that he was stuck with something he neither wanted nor understood. “Kumben is going to ascend with no one to stop him. She had no choice.”

“And so?”

The woman's flippant response had Makplang reflexively reaching for the power he had felt before. But some voice whispered to him that this woman could squash him like a bug, and so he let the power flow out of him.

“If he does, what would stop others from trying?” he asked instead.

“Matters such as those are best left to the kum mo to deal with.”

He was tired of hearing of those deities. They hadn’t done anything to help since the terrors had started.

“And I suppose you are one of those almighty deities?” he asked scornfully.

“No.”

He waited for an explanation but didn’t get any.

 Makplang sighed. He might as well get on with it. “What am I?”

“You are the latest practitioner of baak ka.”

He frowned. “What’s that?”

"Simply put, old-world magic. Your priests of this day and age have shunned the practices of yesteryears and left the old religion to die out. As such, it is safe for only one such as yourself to exist in seclusion, protecting the people from a distance.”

Makplang was astounded. He’d never known there was even an old religion. Maybe that was the point.

“And what am I to do now?”

Makplang’s other senses were heightened and he could feel the woman raising an eyebrow.

“I believe you were in the middle of an incantation.”

“I mean, how will my life change?” Something as big as this surely came with a price. Makplang just didn’t know if it would be worth stopping Kumben.

“Will I get to see my family?” His heart cracked at the thought that he would never see his mother again.

“Your mother will be alright.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There was a brief pause before the woman spoke. “From now on, whoever sets eyes on you will either be put to death or be the next practitioner.”

If Makplang still had the use of his eyes, he would have wept. Wept for the mother waiting to receive her child joyfully. Wept for the woman who would never again know the touch of the child she held to her breasts. Wept for the son who could not even explain why he had left her in such anguish.

But he had no choice. He could not subject her to either of the fates that came with showing his face to her. Neither would he subject some poor innocent to what had been forced upon him. Besides, if he tried, he would die, which was the equivalent of living without his mother. So why not do some good in death?

For her sake and the good of his people, he had to stay where he was and take up the mantle of protection. And what a heavy mantle it was.

Maybe this was what being a man was about. Doing what was necessary for the good of those you loved. If so, Makplang would gladly do it, if only to make his mother proud of the man he had become, even though no one would ever know. They’d probably attribute the end of the terrors to the deities. Oh well. It didn’t matter.

Like a flash, he remembered the last words she had spoken to him.

We will always be with you.

Almost like she had known he wasn’t coming back.

Makplang chuckled to himself. Mothers.

Then he did all that was left for him to do. This time, when he spoke the incantations, he could feel them find their target, the spirit of an embittered young child finding peace. Kumben was reunited with his father once more.

“Is that all? Will the terrors end now that Kumben is gone?” Makplang asked.

“Yes, that is all.”

“Good.”

And he turned and walked deep into the forest, the protector that would never be seen or known, but eternally present.

 *

 I am the one they call Naankling.

I am the new baak ka practitioner—the next silent hero.

Mother and son have been reunited.

The spirits are dancing.

About the author

Plangdi Noel Neple is a Nigerian-based writer and graphic designer. He wrote his first short story at the age of fifteen, after spending years with books above his age grade. His preferred genre to read and write is fantasy, although he will pick up a Sophie Kinsella book once in a while. When not writing, he can be found solving some complex engineering problem.

You can read more of his work on Medium at https://noelneple.medium.com/.