Never Ask the Dead

By Valentino Mori

Ndala has always considered matrimony a dull subject, until she witnesses the murder of the Mulosi Chieftain at his own wedding feast. The Chieftain’s demise sends the village into turmoil. Driven by curiosity and a sense of justice, Ndala defies the village elders and investigates the crime herself. But exposing the killer is no simple matter. Was this murder about succession, revenge, or something else entirely? Ndala must tread carefully, or risk handing leadership of the Mulosi people to a murderer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Dec 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370717323

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

Never

Ask

the Dead

By Valentino Mori

ISBN (print): 978-1976722318

ISBN (ebook): 978-1370717323

Cover Design by Les Solot

All Rights Reserved.

Thanks to everyone who supported me through this process, especially those who read those early drafts.

I couldn't have done it without you.

Family Tree

The_family_tree

Chapter 1 - The Wedding

Ndala sensed her grandmother's disapproval behind her as she led the way through the thorny trees.  Every time she paused to pick more mockberries, Ndala heard Cashile's low grumble.  After a particularly loud harrumph, Ndala couldn't resist any more.

Something wrong, grandmother?

Do not play innocent with me, Ndala, said Cashile. You know how my feelings about mockberries.

Ndala picked another and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. They're perfectly safe as long as you don't swallow the seeds.

Perfectly safe until you become careless, said Cashile, leaning on her walking stick. It is a foolish way to die.

Ndala grinned. But the risk is what makes the berries so delicious.

Cashile shook her head and laughed dryly. I will be sure to tell your mother that, when I return to the village with your corpse.  Come, let us keep moving.  We do not want to arrive late for the wedding.

Yes, grandmother.

The bush buzzed around them with shrill bird calls and chattering insects.  The sun glared down from above the barbed branches, administering the relentless heat of the dry season.  The air was heavy with the pungent aroma of the bush and the rich odor of the soil.  Waterbuck and warthogs moved between the foliage, uninterested in the two travelers.

When their path sloped downhill, Ndala helped her grandmother navigate the rocky descent with a steady arm.  Cashile scowled at the tender treatment, but didn't protest.  She would not admit it, but Ndala knew she was grateful to have company for the journey.

Why is this Mulosi wedding so important to you, grandmother?

You know why, said Cashile. Chieftain Mqomenzi was married to your Aunt Nomzamo.  I have not visited the Mulosi village since Nomzamo's funeral, and I return to pay my respects to my son-in-law and his new bride.

Ndala furrowed her brow.  She was fourteen-rains-old, with bright eyes and feet hardened by her wanderings through the bush.  Berry juice stained her skirt and she wore a tight pattern of beads, covering her chest.

Ndala pushing aside a branch for her grandmother to pass. Were you—are you close with Chieftain Mqomenzi?

No, said Cashile. But still Mqomenzi was my daughter's husband.  I honor her marriage by honoring his new one.

It was hard for Ndala to tell how much Cashile still grieved the death of her daughter.  When Cashile’s husband had died, Cashile had not shed a single tear.  Instead she disappeared into the bush for five days to find a protea flower worthy of laying in her husband's ashes.  Cashile grieved intensely, but privately.

I wish Aunt Nomzamo had visited us more after marrying Mqomenzi.  I barely remember her.

Cashile shook her head. It is difficult to start a new life in a distant village.  Sometimes, it is easier to let your old life fade away.  Easier, but no less painful.

They kept walking, Ndala carrying the provisions and the waterskins, Cashile carrying the bundle of wedding gifts.  Finally, the bush parted and they stepped into the open.

They stood on the edge of the Mulosi grazing grounds.  Boys ran between the silent cows, yelling at each other and rolling among dusty tufts of grass.

There's the village! exclaimed Ndala, pointing towards the trails of smoke in the sky.

Grazing grounds gave way to fields of maize, beans, and squash.  Farmers harvested ripe specimens and carried them towards the village gates.  Both the Mulosi men and women wore red beads around their wrists and on their skirts—it was a wedding day, after all.

Ndala, said Cashile.

Ndala kept watching the farmers, intrigued by the songs they were singing. Yes, grandmother?

Be careful among the Mulosi.

Careful? asked Ndala. Surely they won't treat us as enemies on a wedding day.

There had been tensions recently between the Lungelo and the Mulosi, disputes over misplaced beads and missing cattle.  The matter hadn't seemed serious to Ndala, merely the result of poor communication and bad luck.  However, the Lungelo Chieftain was furious with the Mulosi, and had almost forbid Cashile from attending the wedding.

I do not speak of accusations or threats, said Cashile, tentatively. We are family, and we were invited.  I just want you to stay vigilant.

For what?

Cashile looked at the trails of smoke with narrowed eyes. Rumors say that there is something rotten in this village and since Mqomenzi became Chieftain, the passing rains have only made that rot fester.

According to our Chieftain, the rotten thing is Mqomenzi himself.

He may say what he wants, said Cashile. But you must be polite and observant.

Other guests were arriving at the gates ahead of them.  Ndala recognized the multicolored beads of various villages: the yellow of the Senzo people, the white and black of the Thulani.  She checked her own bracelets, to make sure none of the turquoise beads were missing.

She heard the celebratory music before they reached the gate: drums and shell-rattles, accompanied by joyous singing.  Ndala's feet were already tapping along to the beat.  She couldn’t wait for the dancing.

Welcome, said a young man waiting at the gate. You must be Cashile of the Lungelo.

I am, said Cashile. And this is my granddaughter, Ndala.

The young man bowed. A pleasure to meet you.  My name is Shona, nephew to Chieftain Mqomenzi.  You will be staying in my mother's home.  Please, follow me.

He was a few rains older than Ndala, with his hair cut short.  He had already changed out of his beaded skirt and into the ceremonial cowhide apron, which he was constantly adjusting with nervous fingers.  He was not handsome, but moved with poise between fire pits.

They reached a cluster of woven huts which bustled with wedding preparations.  Various women inspected ceremonial shields, brewed beer and arranged flowers.  A large woman stood at the locus of activity.  She wore the beaded headdress of the village Healer.

No, no, she said to one girl. Stop with the flowers: we have enough for five weddings.  We need firewood.  Send the boys to collect more dry timber.

Hello, mother, said Shona. Our Lungelo guests have arrived.  Do you need anything else, or may I visit the Ash Garden?

The woman gazed at Shona fondly. Of course.  Send prayers to the dead for a fortuitous wedding.  And remember to take your waterskin with you.

Shona left and his mother turned to her guests. Welcome back, Matron Cashile.

It is good to see you again, Matron Sizani, said Cashile. And in happier circumstances than last time.  This is my Ndala, my granddaughter.

A pleasure to meet you, Ndala, said Sizani. I am sister to Chieftain Mqomenzi and the Village Healer.  You must be hungry.  How about some pumpkin stew?

We can't impose, Matron Sizani, said Ndala, hurriedly. You must be busy.

That is my concern, not yours, said Sizani, taking Ndala's arm and guiding her to the outdoor hearth. If not pumpkin stew, how about a mash of maize and peas?  My daughter Thembi made it herself.

We are not hungry, Matron Sizani, said Cashile, eyes twinkling as if she were used to Sizani's  insistent liberality. Ndala has been gorging herself on berries and my appetite is not what it used to be.  Your generosity is deeply appreciated.

Sizani was undeterred. If you're not hungry, at least drink some sour milk and honey.  Or some beer.  Refresh yourselves.  The wedding banquet won't begin for quite some time.

Resigned, Ndala and Cashile accepted bowls of milk and thanked Sizani.

That's better.  I must return to the preparations.  You will be sleeping here, she pointed at a thatched hut with flowering vines above the door. Make yourselves comfortable.  If you need anything—porridge, beer, bushtea—just ask Thembi and she will attend to you.

Cashile chuckled, watching Sizani bustle away with a trail of women asking her questions. "Sizani has not changed.  As a host she is so intense that her guests must appease her, rather than the other way around."

Ndala drank the sour milk down in four gulps.  The honey was strong and spicy. If appeasing her means eating good food, I'll appease her until the sun comes up.

They unstrapped their travel baskets and stowed their belongings in the hut.  Cashile lay down to rest, but Ndala, feeling restless, left to explore the Mulosi village.

After several days in the bush, it was exciting to smell all the human aromas—the smoke, the beer, the sweat.  Everyone was too busy to pay her any attention, so Ndala just watched the villagers tidying their huts and donning their best beads.  The men wore their finest aprons and the women decorated each other's backs with festive white paint.

Satisfied by the spectacle, Ndala wandered toward the Ash Garden on the edge of the village.  She approached the familiar sight of petrified fever trees and the gray soil of the collective dead.  The Lungelo village also had an Ash Garden, to cremate and scatter the departed.

She spotted Sizani's son, Shona, sitting cross-legged in front of the Ash Garden's faceless idol, muttering under his breath.  She watched him from beyond the fence, trying to catch his words.  He held porcupine quills in his left hand and kingfisher feathers in his right.  Intrigued but not wanting to be caught spying, Ndala made her way to the wedding site to await the festivities.

***

It was a grand celebration.  The drums rumbled, and the women started the dance.  Then the hunters joined in with spears and shields, followed by the whole village, the guests, the aged and those still learning to walk.  Ndala danced with enthusiasm rather than grace, only pausing for refreshments.  The beer was cool and foamy, the roasted berries were spicy and sweet.

Then the drumbeat changed and a cheer rose—the ceremony was about to begin.  The Mulosi people and the guests surged towards a raised hill, resplendent with pink flowers.  Ndala spotted her grandmother,  came to Cashile's side, and helped her find a place to sit.  Chieftain Mqomenzi and his bride stood at the ridge, with the Ash Keeper between them.

Today we celebrate the union between Yibathani and Mqomenzi, proclaimed the Ash Keeper, his belly trembling behind his cowhide apron.

Some Ash Keepers became solemn with the magnitude of their office—conversing with the ancestors was an important business—but this man, Master Bogani, was jovial.  He smiled at the gathered crowd, he smiled at the bride and groom, he smiled at the sky itself.

Weddings like these reinforce our faith in the four immortal gods, and not for the reason you're thinking—no, no, Yibathani loves Mqomenzi without divine compulsion, hard as that may be to believe. A few, polite laughs—a grin from Mqomenzi.  Master Bogani resumed, becoming sincere. But just as The Breath, the Mercy, The Blaze, and The Dust turned two worlds into one, so do Yibathani and Mqomenzi unite two families.  That is love.  For love we lay down our spears and share our happiness: an amazing clemency in this hard world.

Ndala watched Mqomenzi throughout the sermon.  The groom stood tall, broad shoulders draped with a cape of buckhide.  His headband was studded with magnificent beads, not just red but every color of the rainbow.

But while his adornments were impressive, Ndala did not like the hungry gleam in Mqomenzi's eyes when he looked at his young bride.  Ndala glanced from Mqomenzi to her grandmother, then back to the Chieftain.  Why did Cashile want to honor this man?  He clearly wasn't thinking about Nomzamo at all.

Master Bogani concluded his sermon by spreading ash across Yibathani's and Mqomenzi's open palms.  At Bogani's word, bride and groom clasped hands, uniting ash with ash.  Bogani tied sacred black beads around their wrists and called upon the gods to honor the marriage.  The ceremony was complete.

The villagers erupted in cheers, and drums guided the wedding guests to the banquet.  More than one hundred people gathered around the fire pits, where they passed around bowls of