P is for Poppet: The A,B,C's of Witchery

(Moonbeam Chronicles Book 16)

Carolina Mac
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 P is for POPPET
The Moonbeam Chronicles:
Book Sixteen

Carolina Mac
Copyright © 2022 by Carolina Mac
P is for POPPET - 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-989827-76-5

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
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Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
Poppet: A small figure of a human being used in
sorcery or witchery.
 CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
 Chapter One

Tuesday, July 20th.

Comfort Inn. Houma. Louisiana.

Ardal showered and dressed, then went down to the main floor of the
hotel for coffee in the breakfast room. He had nailed down an
address for a lab in Houma that did DNA testing and he was heading
there right after breakfast.
In his relentless search for his father, Ardal had discovered Sylvan
Trehan living in the bayou west of Houma. Ninety percent sure the
Cajun man was his biological father, Ardal needed absolute proof
and intended to get it.
When the DNA test was complete, he would know for sure one
way or the other. He liked Sylvan a lot and wanted him to be his
father, but he wasn’t allowing himself to become emotionally
attached until he knew for sure. He’d suffered too many
disappointments already.
Ardal was still reeling from the unfortunate attachment he’d
formed to Levi Sugarman because of his mother’s lies. That mistake
had almost ended fatally and this time Ardal was taking nothing at
face value. He wanted proof every step of the way.
His other worry was Rowan. He didn’t have a clue where she’d
run off to in the bayou. A totally unfamiliar area for her. She could be
lost, but Ardal didn’t think she would be. Rowan had developed
survival skills far above the norm. The animal part of her knew how
to survive without being told or given a lesson. She just knew.

South Central Laboratories. Houma.

Ardal took the sample Sylvan Trehan had given him willingly into the
lab and stood in front of the receptionist. “Good morning, ma’am. I
need a test done on this sample as soon as possible.”
“Two to three weeks is the standard wait time, sir.”
“Can’t I have it any sooner?”
“There is an additional fee to have your sample moved to priority
testing, sir.”
“Okay, tell me how much the basic test is and the additional cost
to make it a priority.”
“Four hundred dollars for the test. Another two hundred and fifty to
put you at the priority level.”
“So six fifty, then?” Ardal opened his wallet and laid his Visa card
on the desk.
“Yes, sir. Six fifty.”
“And when can I expect the results?”
“Possibly by Friday. I’ll give you a number to call and you can
check periodically.”
“Thank you,” said Ardal. He waited for his receipt and hoped he
could keep from losing his mind while he waited for Friday to roll
around.

Comfort Inn. Houma. Louisiana.

With the sample in the hands of the lab, Ardal went back to his hotel
to begin the long wait. His first call was to Gilly to tell her what was
going on.
“I’ve seen him and talked to him, Gilly. Bobo knew where Sylvan
lived and he’s a nice person. Not a liar and definitely not a rapist like
my mother said he was. I like him a lot. He was very accepting of me
and we are both hoping the results of the DNA test come back
positive.”
“I’m so happy for you, sugar. You’ve been through such an ordeal
looking for your parents, I want this to work out for you.”
“Thanks, Gilly. Friday—I might know by Friday—and if the result is
favorable, I think I’ll stay in the bayou with Sylvan for a while and get
to know him a little. He’s anxious for me to help him with his work.”
“What does he do?”
“He fishes the bayou and he works with Marc LaFontaine. They’re
building houses and barns right now in the bayou and they’re busy
with a lot of work waiting.”
“You’re good at construction. Not that I want you to be away from
me. I don’t. I miss you too much when we’re not together.”
“Same.”
Ardal didn’t want Gilly to know how badly he was missing her.
Mirabelle too.

Sheriff’s Office. Shadow Valley. West Virginia.

The landline was ringing when Jethro and Cade got to the sheriff’s
office. Hadn’t happened often. Jethro couldn’t remember it ever
happening. He ran into the squad room, grabbed the receiver, and
answered.
“Sheriff’s office, Deputy Beech speaking.” Somebody was
whispering and he could hardly hear them.
“It’s me, Jethro. Two men here trying to rob us. Got guns. Hurry.”
“Arlene, is that you? Fuck, she’s gone.”
Without stopping to tell his uncle, the sheriff, what was going on,
Jethro ran across the street to the credit union. Fearing for his wife,
Arlene, his heart pounded in his chest as he stood outside the front
door of the credit union and peered through the front window. He
called his cousin.

Shadow Valley Credit Union.

About to lose his mind, Jethro hollered into the phone, “Clover, come
to the credit union. Arlene is getting robbed.”
As soon as he saw Clover run out the front door of the pool hall,
Jethro opened the door of the bank and charged in.
A guy with a ski mask over his head was standing in front of
Jethro’s wife’s station pointing a gun at her. His partner, another guy
dressed the same way was pointing a gun at the other teller on duty.
“Drop the guns,” hollered Jethro. “Y’all are under arrest.”

I ran in the front door of the credit union and Jethro had his gun
trained on the back of the robber in front of Arlene. Jethro told them
to drop their guns but it didn’t happen. The other robber turned and
leveled his gun at Jethro.
 Bang.
I took out the second robber with a shot to the head. He crashed
to the floor and his weapon flew out of his hand.
Arlene and the other teller screamed when the gun went off, then
both of them hit the floor to get out of the way.
When his partner crashed down a foot away from him with half his
head missing, the robber in front of Arlene threw his gun to the floor
and put his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot. I give up.”
“Cuff him, Jethro.” I moved closer, kicked the gun away from the
robber while Jethro got cuffs on him. I called Doc Munson to come
from the clinic two blocks away for the dead guy. Our only doctor
was also the medical examiner for our county.
Then I called Daddy across the road in his office and told him
about the attempted robbery. “I’ll be right over, Clover. Everybody
okay?”
“I think so, Daddy. Come now. We’ve got a prisoner.” To Jethro:
“Daddy is on his way over. As soon as he gets here, you and I will
take this mutthead and lock him up.”
Jethro was still shaky and Arlene was crying.
“Everybody okay?” I hollered. “Did any of y’all get hurt? Doctor
Munson is on his way.”
The manager who was watching from the end of the hallway
leading to his office said, “I think you and Jethro got here just in time,
Clover. We’re all okay.”
Daddy came through the door and glanced around at the scene.
One guy cuffed and one dead body with his head blown half off. He
let out a breath. “All under control, I see.”
“We’ve got this, Daddy. Jethro and I will take this guy and book
him, you wait for Doc Munson.”
“Copy that, Clover. Nice work.”
Jethro and I got the robber to his feet and pushed him towards the
door. While we escorted him across the street, I looked around to
see what vehicle they were driving and didn’t see one.
“Wonder how they got here.”
“Maybe they ain’t from out of town,” said Jethro. “They could’ve
walked.”
 “Make for a slow getaway,” I said.
Jethro grinned. “Unless they’re fast runners.”

Sheriff’s Office.
I helped Jethro book the robber. His prints were in the system and he
had a record. Had served time in Beckley Prison for armed robbery.
His name was Dwayne Willoughby and his current address was in
the same trailer park north of Hinton where my former almost-
boyfriend, Flint Carver lived. I’d been to that trailer park a couple of
times.
We locked him up and I asked who his partner was.
“None of your business, you cop bitch. Don’t matter now, does it?
You fuckin killed him.”
“It is my business, Dwayne, because we have to notify his next of
kin.”
Dwayne sat on the bunk in his cell with his head in his hands and
never said another word.
We locked up the run and left Dwayne to his own devices. “Jethro,
check the bank parking lot. See if you can come up with a vehicle for
these bozos. Might help us figure out who the dead guy is.”
“Yep, I’ll check on Uncle Cade and Doc Munson while I’m over
there.”
“Make sure your wife is holding together too, Jethro. She just went
through a traumatic experience and she’ll be upset.”
“I’ll ask her if she’s okay.”
I nodded. “I’ll hold the fort until you get back.” I poured myself a
coffee from the pot Daddy had on the warmer and I had time for one
sip before Jethro was back.
“Think this might be it, Clover. Old clunker that I ain’t never seen
before. There were only five other cars in the lot and I know who
they belonged to.”
“Run the tag and see what you get.”
“You do it, Clover. I’m not good at it. Ardal always did all that stuff
for me.”
“You have to learn to do it, Jethro. Sometimes you’ll be here
alone.”
 “Don’t wanna be, Clover. I hate working the office alone. Freaks
me out. I told Arlene that too.”
I smiled at my cousin. “What did Arlene say?”
“She said when I hit a stumbling block to call you or Uncle Cade.”
“Exactly. Call for help. No shame in that.”
I ran the tag and the old Chevy belonged to a guy named Vance
Serban. Twenty-four years old. Address in the same trailer park. “He
lives in Hinton Estates too. Same one Carver lives in.”
“The truck driver?” asked Jethro.
“Yeah, him. I went to his trailer once but nothing happened. For
about a week we were supposed to be a couple but no couple stuff
ever happened with him. Then he dumped me. Never could figure
him out.”
“Can’t see guys dumping you, Clover. They must have a fuckin
screw loose.”
“Thanks for that, Jethro. You’re my only fan.”
“Nope. Don’t think so.”

Hinton Estates Trailer Park.

As soon as Daddy came back from handling the scene at the credit
union, Jethro and I took off for the trailer park to do the notification.
Jethro drove around looking for the right trailer. Half of them had
no numbers and a lot of the street signs were missing, covered in dirt
or full of bullet holes.
I pointed out the one I thought it was. “Forty-four Chelsea Lane.”
Jethro pulled in and parked the Bronco. “I see a light in the living
room window.”
“Could be the TV.” I pulled out my badge as we walked up the
three steps to the door.
Jethro knocked and called out, “Police, need to speak to you.”
A skinny girl with stringy dishwater blonde hair opened the door
three inches and peered at us. “Where’s Vance? He in jail again?”
“Can we come in for a minute, Miss?” I asked.
“No, y’all can’t come in. I’m busy. Tell me what y’all want.”
“Are you Vance Serban’s next of kin, ma’am?” I asked.
“I’m his wife if that’s what y’all are meaning.”
 I nodded my head. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry to tell you, but Vance is
dead. He was killed while trying to rob a bank in Shadow Valley.
Sorry for your loss.”
She didn’t flinch. “Where’s Dwayne?”
“He’s in Shadow County lockup ma’am,” I said. “You can call
Doctor Munson in Shadow Valley to make arrangements for Vance’s
body.”
Jethro gave her a card with all the phone numbers on it. She took
it and stared at us with glassy eyes. “Okay.”
On our way back to the truck I could see Carver’s big rig parked in
his driveway and he was sitting on his porch smoking.
“Should I say hello to Carver?”
“The guy who dumped you?” Jethro shrugged. “Don’t see why you
would want to.”
“Yeah, me neither.”

Sheriff’s Office. Shadow Valley.

When we got back to the office Jethro parked behind the building
and shut off the engine. “Guess we have to get lunch for the guy in
the lockup. Hate when we got a prisoner in our jail. Makes so much
fuckin work.”
“Go see how Arlene is. She had a bad shock. Take her to lunch at
the diner then get a sandwich for Dwayne when you and Arlene are
ready to leave.”
Jethro smiled. “Thanks, Clover. I should’ve thought about
checking on Arlene again myself. Not used to being a husband yet, I
guess.”
“Being a good husband is all about caring about your wife. I know
you’re going to be good at it, Jethro. You will be.”
“Thanks, Clover. I’ll tell Uncle Cade I’m back and go do that.”

Hart’s Pool Hall.

With the robbery squared away I ran back to the pool hall to grab a
sandwich and get ready to open. Now that I shared managerial
duties with Frank and Johnny, I had a lot more time off. I wasn’t
spending every night behind the bar but I was working my share of
hours and keeping my eye on my guys.
As soon as they were up to speed, I planned on going to Texas for
a while. The Chief had called and asked if I was ready to go back to
work.
Nothing I wanted more.
 Chapter Two

Wednesday, July 21st.

Comfort Inn. Houma. Louisiana.

Ardal decided that waiting until Friday was going to kill him. He had
to do something while he waited for the DNA results and he
remembered Angelique telling him he needed more training in the
powerful art of doll magick.
Taking her words to heart, he headed back to Bobo’s boat launch.
While he was in the swamp it would be an ideal time to search for
Rowan as well. He might see her running by while she was hunting
and get her back. Sometimes she enjoyed being free and she
wouldn’t stay with him. Always a guessing game where Rowan was
concerned.
I need to find a normal girlfriend. Not necessarily mundane, but
normal.

Bobo’s Boat Rentals.

When Ardal arrived at Bobo’s landing on the river, he had the big
boat loaded with fishermen and they were about ready to push off
from the dock.
Ardal ran from his Jeep hollering to Bobo. “Hey, Bobo, you going
by the LaFontaine place?”
Bobo grinned. “You want Bobo drop you off, Ardal?”
“Yes, please. Do you mind?”
“Bobo don mind nuttin. You know dat. We be kin now and help
each other.”
“You related to the Trehans?” asked Ardal.
“Sure. Bobo kin to mos folks in da bayou. Hard not to be.” He
laughed.
 Ardal climbed into the boat and squeezed in between two big
guys dressed in camo, Duck Dynasty caps on their heads. The big
jon boat was loaded with rods, nets, bait buckets and all the rest. Big
fishing day in the bayou for these guys.
“Hope you guys have good luck today,” said Ardal.
“We’re after catfish.”
“Bobo know where da big ones are at.” He poled the boat out into
the middle of the river then started the big Merc engine.
Hoping to catch a glimpse of Rowan, Ardal focused on the banks
of the river as they sped along. He saw nothing but cypress trees
and gators and hundreds of birds of every size and description.

LaFontaine Residence.
Bobo cut the engine and pulled into the dock when they got to
Angelique’s place. The boat was close enough to the dock for Ardal
to jump out easily.
“Thanks, Bobo.” He gave his new cousin a wave. “Y’all have a
great day.”
Bobo backed the boat away from the dock and turned east.
Ardal ran up the grassy slope to Angelique’s new bungalow her
sons had built for her. A better, more substantial house than most
folks in the bayou were privileged to have.
The inside door was open and Ardal called through the screen,
“Angelique, I’m here to work on the poppets.”
Wearing her beautiful smile, she opened the door and hugged
him. “Come in, Ardal. I’ve been expecting you.”
“You knew I was coming?”
“Der are many things you need to know before you live in da
bayou,” said Angelique.
“I have a lot to learn,” said Ardal. “We only scratched the surface
on the doll magick the last time I was here.”
“Sylvan so happy to have a son. He tell everyone in da bayou
about you coming to live wid him.”
Surprised that Sylvan was already spreading the word, Ardal
didn’t say anything about the test not being confirmed as of yet.
 Angelique nodded her head and the wooden beads braided into
her waist-length hair rattled musically. “Don you worry about da test.
It be positive. Sylvan your daddy. No doubt about it.”
“You know something I don’t know?”
“Sylvan knows it. Great powerful witch like him don come along
every day. When you came to him, he could feel the power in you
and he been happy, happy since dat day.”
“I didn’t know he felt my power,” said Ardal. “He didn’t mention it
to me. I’m glad he’s pleased we found each other.”
“Come, sit down. Before we start, you and Luc eat some crawfish
pie. You need energy to practice da spells we learn together.”
“Luc is home?”
“Oui. He fish da river and collect from da traps early. Before dawn
he be all done. He sleep for a couple of hours when he get home.”
“Luc is a hard worker,” said Ardal.
“Oui, work is all Luc have right now.”
What happened to Luc that I don’t know about?
After eating more crawfish pie than he should have, Ardal
watched as Angelique cleared the table and brought out a huge
basket of supplies for the making of the poppets.

Shadow Mountain. West Virginia.

Awake early and lonely in my big empty apartment, I took a drive up
the mountain to eat breakfast with Mama and Daddy. They were
missing Ardal and Jethro so badly and I was of little consolation.
“One more for breakfast,” I hollered as I blasted in through the
screen door.
Mama let out a little squeal as she ran across the kitchen to hug
me. “There is always room at the table for you, Clover. I wish you’d
move back home and stop living in that empty apartment.”
“I need furniture and stuff if I’m going to stay there,” I said. “I don’t
even have a sofa to sit on to watch the TV Tarn hung on the wall.”
Daddy frowned. “Where is that nasty boy?”
I shrugged. “He’s around. Lurking around. Comes in for a beer
sometimes late at night.”
 Trying my best to fill in for Ardal and Jethro, I ate as many of
Mama’s hot biscuits as I could hold. While we ate, Daddy and I
talked about the robbery and about Dwayne Willoughby’s
arraignment.
“Clover, can you take him to the courthouse while I watch the
office? If he put a move on me or tried anything, I don’t think I could
do much about it. My powers have been so unused since I was shot,
a lot of my juice has drained away.”
“Now that you’re healing, your powers will come back, Daddy. I
felt that way when I was shot and after my truck accident too. I’m
back to normal now and I think I’m stronger than ever.”
Mama nodded. “I agree. That will happen, Cade. Clover is right.”
“I’m glad you girls think so. How long do I have to wait?”
“Cast a few spells when the moon is full,” said Mama. “A few
practice rounds never hurt anyone.”
“Huh.” Daddy gave Mama the stink-eye and snapped at her.
“Don’t think that will be happening, Glenny. I’ve never had to practice
—ever. I’m not doing it.”
“Practice is beneath you, Cade Thornheart? Give your head a
shake and straighten out your brain.” Mama gave Daddy a look that
could fry him, then turned her attention to me. “Have you heard from
Ardal, Clover?”
“Yes. He’s waiting for the lab to finish the test, then he’ll know for
sure if Sylvan Trehan is his biological father.”
Mama started to cry. “I want the boy to find his real father but I
don’t want him to live in the swamp in Louisiana. We’ll never get to
see him.”
“He won’t stay there long,” I said to make Mama feel better. “He’ll
miss you and Daddy too much, and he’ll come back home.”
“From what you told us, girl,” said Daddy, “his mother don’t sound
too trustworthy.”
“She told a lot of lies,” I said. “I don’t have a high opinion of Beth
Mayfield.”
“Could be why Sylvan never tried to find her,” said Mama. “He
knew what a liar she was.”
LaFontaine Residence. Louisiana.
After Angelique cooked a big breakfast on the woodstove, the
kitchen in the little bungalow and the whole house was hot. She
cleared the table, wiped it down then fetched the basket of craft
supplies from the closet.
Poppets they’d worked on the day before were waiting in the
basket for the finishing touches. They were fun to make and to Ardal,
anything he did with the poppets didn’t feel like work.
Angelique laid out all the dolls they were working on and the
material needed to finish them. “Now we get to work.”
The door opened and Marc’s wife, Tarana came in with her little
girl running ahead of her. The toddler ran straight to Angelique who
picked her up and twirled around and around the kitchen. The little
girl squealed and clung to her grandmother.
Ardal’s gaze fixed on the girl coming through the door behind
Tarana. Angelique saw her at the same time and said, “Oh, you
brought Ember with you.” She smiled and introduced the girl to
Ardal.
Black hair and eyes, Ember was the most beautiful girl Ardal had
ever seen. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Ember, dis be Ardal. He be Sylvan Trehan’s son.”
“Hi,” said Ember shyly.
“Nice to meet you, Ember,” said Ardal.
“Come,” said Angelique, “we sit and make da poppets and talk
about da magick dat go wid dem. Ardal needs to learn all dat. He
has great power like his daddy.”
As they sat around the wooden table Tarana said, “More of Marc’s
tools were stolen last night from da shed.”
“You have a ward on da shed?” asked Angelique.
Tarana nodded.
“You hear anybody outside da house?”
“No. Remi didn’t bark.”
“Sylvan told me he had trouble when I was at his place,” said
Ardal, “but he didn’t tell me what it was. If the thieves came by boat
they’d be hard to track down.”
 “Not many thieves around here,” said Tarana. “Most folks close to
us are kin. They don’t take what don belong to dem.”
Ardal listened to Tarana and at the same time watched Ember
sewing up the poppet she was working on. She was skilled with a
needle and thread. Much better than he was in his first couple of
attempts.
“If Sylvan and Marc need help to catch the thieves, I can help
them,” said Ardal.
“We make da poppets and cast a spell,” said Angelique. “Den
dose voleurs bring back what dey stole.”
Ardal smiled. “I’d like to see that happen. It’s not often that thieves
return what they stole.”
Angelique giggled. “We make it happen.”
Ardal chuckled. “Let’s do it.”

Hinton Courthouse. West Virginia.

While Daddy drank coffee and watched the office, Jethro and I were
stuck taking Dwayne Willoughby to Hinton for his arraignment. I
couldn’t see where he’d be granted bail and even if he was, where
would he get the money for the bond? We were going to be stuck
with him until his trial.
Jethro leaned over and whispered to me as we sat in our seats
waiting for Dwayne’s case to be called. “I want him to make bail. I
don’t want him back.”
“If he’s robbing a bank, Jethro, he has no money for bail.”
“Shit. I never thought of that.”
Dwayne’s case was called and the charges were read.
“How do you plead to the charges, Mister Willoughby?” asked the
judge.
“Not guilty.”
“Your plea has been entered and your lawyer will be advised of
your trial date.”
Dwayne’s PD asked about bail and the judge rifled through the
reports in front of her.
“You’ve been charged with armed robbery, Mister Willoughby, and
I see that you have a prior for the same offence. Bail is set at twenty-
five thousand dollars.”
She banged the gavel down and that was all she wrote for
Dwayne.
“He needs ten percent for the bond,” said Jethro. “You’re right,
Clover. He ain’t gonna have twenty-five hundred.”
“We’ll follow him to the bond office just to make sure,” I said, “but I
think we’ll be taking him back to our lockup.”
“Shitfires,” mumbled Jethro.

Marc LaFontaine’s Residence. Louisiana Bayou.

With a half dozen poppets newly created to represent the thieves at
work in the bayou, Ardal tagged along with Tarana and Ember as
they ran through the swampy woods connecting Marc’s place to
Angelique’s.
Little Ariel stayed with her grandmother to bake cupcakes and
decorate them. One of their favorite things they did together.
Between the two houses the path was well-worn and easy to
navigate. Ardal kept his eyes open for Rowan but there was no sign
of her. Where he was now was miles from the hotel in Houma where
she’d run from him.
Lots of chipmunks, birds, and the odd snake slithering away, but
no sign of Rowan. If she was running with a pack of wolves, she’d be
sleeping in the daytime and hunting at night.
Could she just join a new pack of wolves? Would they accept her?
Ardal had no idea of wolf protocol.
I should Google it.
When they arrived, Tarana pointed out the trees around the shed
at the back of the house. “We hang da poppets on da branches
around da shed.”
“Do you have a ladder?” asked Ardal. “Or I can climb up and you
girls can hand the dolls to me.”
“Marc has da ladder wid him in his truck. You climb up.”
Ardal laughed. “I haven’t climbed a tree since I was six.” Hoping
he didn’t fall and look like an idiot with Ember watching him, he
grabbed for a low branch and swung himself up.
 With no trouble, he climbed up the first tree, reached his hand
down and took a poppet from Ember. Their fingers touched and he
felt a little spark shoot up his arm.
Moving too quickly after the shock, he almost lost his grip on the
branch and toppled out of the tree. Sucking in a quick breath, he
recovered his balance and hung the doll on a small branch. He
released it and it happily twirled around in the wind.
Ember smiled at him and he felt something. He was liking her a lot
and barely knew her but the attraction was there and it was strong.
He jumped down and climbed the next tree Tarana had chosen.
When he had placed all six of the poppets, Tarana said, “You have
great power, Ardal. More den me and Ember. You be da one to cast
da spell Angelique taught us.”
“Okay, I can give it a shot.”
He stood near the shed looking up at the poppets swinging in the
trees and shouted out the words he had memorized.

Goddess of the sun and moon

Return the goods and do it soon
Guilt so heavy thieves cannot abide
One more day locked inside
Return the goods from whence they came
Before police can place the blame
Goddess of the sun and moon
Return the goods and do it soon
So mote it be.

Ardal made a swirling motion with his arm and white sparks flew
through the trees like a flock of white doves. A murder of crows
watching them from high in a cypress tree flew up into the sky,
piercing the air with ear-splitting cawing.
Thunder crashed up above in a clear blue sky and a bolt of
lightning struck the ground next to Ardal. A circle of fire surrounded
him and the ground smoldered around him in a perfect ring.
“There, I think that’s got it,” he said.
 Ember’s black eyes were wide. “You have great power, Ardal. You
be son of da great Sylvan for sure.”
“Thank you, Ember.”
“Der, dat’s done,” said Tarana. “Let’s cool down with a glass of
sweet tea before y’all go home.”
Ardal and Ember followed Tarana inside her small wooden house
and sat down at the kitchen table. The room was spotlessly clean
with everything in its place.
Against the longest wall stood a huge old cupboard—originally
painted blue—most of the paint chipped off and gone. The cupboard
was full of Tarana’s salves and potions. All made from recipes
passed down from her mother—who was a sister to Bobo’s mother.
Ardal had learned that little bit of genealogy from Bobo.
Ardal had seen Tarana in action and she was a formidable witch
herself. For each of her cures, she used only organic materials she
gathered in the swamp. The bayou was a rich source of medicinal
flora found in few other places.
The girls chatted together about topics that interested the two of
them and Ardal felt a little like an intruder. He wondered if he should
leave them and make his way back to Angelique’s house.
Tarana answered that question for him. “You see Ember home,
Ardal. Make sure she’s safe. I have to start supper for Marc. He be
home soon.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to do that.” Ardal smiled at Ember. “Do you
live far from here?”
“Not far.”
“Thanks for the tea,” said Ardal. “Let me know tomorrow if the
thieves bring the tools back.”
Tarana smiled. “Dey will. I’m sure of it.”
“I wish there were security cams to record it happening,” said
Ardal. “I guess that’s not a common thing in the bayou.”
Especially with no electricity.

Ember lived two properties over on the river—each plot of land being
a couple of acres. Her home was close to Sylvan’s property and
when Ardal moved in with his father, Ember would be his neighbor.
That was a pleasant thought and a definite bonus.
As they walked, Ardal asked a few questions to get to know her
better. Ember was a shy girl and she didn’t volunteer much
information.
“Did you grow up here on the river?”
“Oui. Lived here all my life. Never been nowhere else.”
“A calm and peaceful place to live,” said Ardal.
Ember nodded.
“I’ve lived in a lot of places looking for my true home,” said Ardal.
“Do you go to school?”
“No school here. I learn from Tarana and from Madam Angelique.
Dey teach me da ways.”
“Uh huh. When I was growing up I learned a lot from my sister.
She’s two years older than me. I’m eighteen. How old are you?”
“Seventeen, jus past.”
“Did you have a birthday recently?”
“Last week.”
“Happy birthday, Ember.”
“Merci.”
They reached her house and she turned to say goodbye to him.
“Will I see you when you come to live with Sylvan?”
“Yes. As soon as I bring my stuff, I’ll come to see you.”
She smiled but didn’t make eye contact with him. “Okay.”
Ardal watched her go into the little house on stilts, then he jogged
all the way back to Angelique’s place. He hadn’t been this happy in
months.
 Chapter Three

Thursday, July 22nd.

Sheriff’s Office. Shadow Valley.

Jethro was first to arrive at the office and he unlocked the back door.
His Uncle Cade never got there first anymore. Not since Ardal left to
find his parents.
Up until Ardal left, Jethro loved being a deputy alongside Ardal
and working the office together. Every day was fun and he loved
coming to work. Now he wasn’t sure he liked it anymore. Not unless
Clover was there with him and she had no time to be a deputy now
that she had to run the pool hall.
He started the coffee and checked the landline for a message.
None. The next thing would be getting breakfast for the prisoner. He
hated doing that. The prisoners were so nasty and if Jethro had his
way, he’d let them starve.
Cade came in the back door and Jethro’s mood lightened a little.
“Morning, Jethro. Have you ordered breakfast for the prisoner yet?”
“Nope, but I’ll run across to the diner and get him something. I
made the coffee.”
Jethro strode through the squad room, unlocked the door of the
office facing Main Street, and stepped out into the July heat. It was
going to be killer hot today and wearing his uniform and his utility belt
didn’t help any. The belt weighed a fuckin ton.
He waited on a stool in the diner until Bea made a couple of fried
egg sandwiches for the prisoner, then he paid for the food and
jogged back across the road to the office.
With the bag from the diner in his left hand, Jethro reached for the
door handle with his right and he jumped when he felt the barrel of a
gun dig into his ribs.
 “Don’t turn around,” a female voice said. “Take me to Dwayne or
I’ll blow a big hole in you.”
“Sure,” said Jethro. He pushed the door open and walked through
the squad room and on his way down the hall past the sheriff’s office
he said loud enough for his uncle to hear him, “You don’t need to
shoot me. I’ll show you where we got Dwayne locked up.”
“You do that, mountain-boy.”
Jethro led the way to the back of the building. The door to the run
was kept locked at all times.

Cade saw Jethro walk by the door of his office, the girl behind him
poking a gun into Jethro’s side. A situation he had to do something
about. There was no time to call Clover. She’d be asleep anyway
after working half the night.
“Open up the door, bozo,” said the woman.
“I haven’t got the key. The sheriff has it.”
“Hey, Sheriff,” the woman hollered, “come and unlock this door or
I’m gonna shoot a hole in your deputy.”
“Hang on, I’m coming.”
Cade walked down the hallway with the keys to the run in his
hand. “Let him go and I’ll open the door for you.”
“No way I’m letting him go or falling for any of your tricks.” She
waved the gun towards the door. “Open the goddammed door.”
Jethro looked a little pale as Cade unlocked the door to the run.
He pushed the door open and the girl shoved Jethro inside, keeping
the gun snugly up against him the whole time.
She hollered out, “Hey, Dwayne, I came to get you out of here.”
“Margo? What the hell are you doing?”
“Breaking you out of jail, that’s what. What does it look like?” She
turned to Cade and yelled at him, “Unlock Dwayne’s cell. I want him
out of there. I’m taking him home.”
As she turned her focus away from Jethro to holler at Cade,
Jethro slammed her up against the bars of the cell and tried to grab
the gun out of her hand.
Margo kicked and clawed at Jethro as they wrestled around,
Jethro doing his damndest to get the gun out of her hand. She
cursed the whole time as she fought hard to hang onto the gun and
Jethro battled just as hard to get it out of her hands.
“Give me that gun, girl.” Jethro held her tight up against the bars
with his strong left arm across her throat while he tried to get the gun
away from her with his right hand.
Margo twisted and turned, screaming at the top of her lungs the
whole time. With a quick move, she rammed her knee upwards into
Jethro’s package and when he bent forward with a groan, she jerked
the gun away from him.
Bang.
The gun went off as she yanked it hard out of Jethro’s grip. The
shot went wild and Dwayne yelled. “You shot me, you dumb bitch.”
“Wasn’t my fault, Dwayne. This bozo made me pull the trigger.”
She hung onto the bars of Dwayne’s cell crying. “I’m sorry, Dwayne. I
came to get you out of here. I want you to come home.”
Jethro grabbed the gun and tossed it on the floor. He took hold of
Margo’s t-shirt, turned her around roughly and shoved her into the
next cell. “Get in there and stay there, crazy woman.” He slammed
the door shut on Margo who was crying and screaming apologies to
Dwayne.
Cade was on the phone calling Doctor Munson. He turned and
asked, “Where are you hit, Dwayne?”
“Left shoulder.”
Cade relayed that information to the doctor and ended the call.
“Doc will be right over. He wants you to sit on your bunk and don’t
move around. You’ll bleed less if you sit still.”
“Okay.” Clutching his bleeding shoulder, Dwayne grimaced in pain
as he sat perfectly still on his bunk.
Margo peered through the bars into Dwayne’s cell and wailed. “I’m
sorry Dwayne. It was an accident.”
Doctor Munson’s clinic was only two blocks away and he arrived a
couple of minutes later. Jethro showed him where Dwayne was and
unlocked the cell.
Doc set his medical bag on the floor and assessed the damage.
“Let’s get the top of your jumpsuit off so I can see what I’m dealing
with.”
 Dwayne stripped off the top of his orange coverall. “Hurts like hell,
Doc.”
“Bullet wounds usually do smart a little.”
The bullet had missed the bone and had gone right through
Dwayne’s upper arm. “Through and through,” said the doctor as he
cleaned up the blood. “You were lucky.”
Dwayne nodded and gritted his teeth. “Don’t feel lucky.”
An hour later Dwayne was all cleaned up, stitched up and his arm
was bandaged. After Doc Munson left, he sat on his bunk sipping a
cup of hot coffee Jethro had brought him.
Margo wailed and kept on and on and Cade was tempted to put a
spell of silence on her. At least that would be practice. He was still
mad at Glenny for suggesting he needed it.
“Would you shut up, Margo?” Dwayne hollered to her in the next
cell. “Just shut up. You did a stupid thing and it’s over. You can’t
undo it. Who’s at the trailer watching little Wayne?”
“I left him sleeping in his crib.”
“What?” Dwayne was on his feet sprinting towards the bars
separating them. “How could you do that Margo? Were you high
again? Where did you get the fix? We ain’t got a fuckin dime.”
“I didn’t think it would take me long to get you out of jail and we’d
be back home before his next bottle.”
“Bottle?” Cade’s eyebrows went up. “You left an infant at home
alone?”
“Margo fried her brain, Sheriff,” said Dwayne. “I don’t let her look
after my son. I do it myself.”
“Give me your address and I’ll send someone to take care of him.”
“Don’t send social services people,” pleaded Dwayne. “They’ll
take Little Wayne and I’ll never get him back.”
“Is there a neighbor or a relative who could go get him?” asked
Cade.
“Don’t know nobody who could,” said Dwayne. “Only Vance’s wife,
Mona, and she’s a meth head like Margo. Wouldn’t trust her for a
second.”
“Never mind, I’ll send my daughter down to get him.”
 “Thanks, Sheriff. I mean it.” There were tears in Dwayne’s eyes.
“He’s only a little baby.”
“Give me the address.”
Dwayne rhymed off an address in Hinton Estates trailer park and
Cade jotted it down. “I’ll call her right now.”

Hart’s Pool Hall.

My cell jangled on the nightstand and woke me up out of a good
dream about Farrell. “Hello?”
“Clover, emergency. I need you to go to this address in the Hinton
trailer park and get a baby out of his crib. Bring all his stuff and take
him up the mountain to Glenny. We got a situation. Dwayne’s baby,
and now I’ve got the junkie wife in our jail too. She left the baby
alone in their trailer. Hear what I’m saying, girl? Hurry.”
“Jeeze, Daddy.” I tried to wake up and take in the long story
Daddy was telling me. He talked fast and I wasn’t fully awake.
I grabbed the shorts and top I had tossed on the chair the night
before and pulled them on as fast as I could. I stuck my feet in a pair
of runners, grabbed my keys and without coffee I could barely see to
get to the door.
Down the stairs, out the side door with Lulu running beside me
thinking we were going for a run. We were, only not that kind of a
run.

Sheriff’s Office.
With Clover dispatched to the trailer park, Cade got back to
business. Another prisoner.
“What are we charging the wife with Uncle Cade?”
“Umm…let’s see. Assault with a deadly, attempted murder of a
police officer, and there will be a bunch more for leaving her child
unattended… and all that end of things.”
“Do we have a charge for trying to bust your husband out of jail?”
asked Jethro.
“There must be one to cover it, but I’ll have to look that one up.
I’m not familiar with it.”
“I need a beer,” said Jethro. “Helluva morning.”
 “Morning is gone, son, and we got no beer here. You’d better
order lunch for the prisoners. Hell, order lunch for all of us and go get
it. Four burger specials.”
Jethro smiled. “Copy that.”

Hinton Estates Trailer Park.

Trying to focus on my driving without a single drop of caffeine in my
veins, I could barely handle the task. Ten minute drive to the trailer
park with my heart pounding. Thankfully it was early and there was
no traffic on the highway to Hinton.
An abandoned baby? Dwayne’s baby. I wondered how old he
was. Driving around the park, I looked for Dwayne’s address. I had
been to his buddy’s trailer to tell Mona I shot Vance in the head but I
didn’t know where Dwayne lived from there.
Turns out he lived two streets over in a paint-peeling double wide.
I parked my Jeep and ran inside holding my breath for what I might
find.
The trailer stunk like grease and weed and rotting garbage and a
baby was howling his lungs out. That was a good sign. He wasn’t
dead. Probably hungry.
Following the wailing, I ran down the hall and scooped him up.
“You’re okay, baby.” I made a face when I felt how wet he was.
“Aside from being soaking wet and probably starving, you’re all
good.”
By his size and his weight, I guessed he was a few months old.
I glanced around for diapers and baby stuff and there was next to
nothing for him. No wonder Dwayne was robbing a bank. He was
desperate for money for food and diapers for his son.
With the baby in a dry sleeper and wrapped in a dry receiving
blanket, I moved on to finding his bottles. Nothing in the fridge and
no cans of formula.
Maybe he was off formula. I knew nothing about baby schedules
and stuff like that. I would have learned it, but…turned out I didn’t
have to.
“Okay, baby. We need to get you a shitload of stuff if you’re going
to survive at Mama’s house. Let’s go.”
 No car seat or stroller or any of that stuff. This baby didn’t have
any of the regular baby equipment. He was existing from day to day
on next to nothing.
The best I could do to transport the baby was a cardboard box I
found with a bit of crap in it. I emptied the box out and it would keep
him from rolling off the back seat of the Jeep. I loaded him in and
closed the door.
“Stay in the box for now, baby. I have to drive.”

Sheriff’s Office. Shadow Valley.

Lulu ran ahead of me into the office and I struggled with the door,
carrying the baby at the same time.
Jethro came running to hug the dog first and then me.
“You got him, Clover,” said Jethro. “I was worried for the little guy.”
“Yeah, he was crying and it’s no wonder. He has no diapers and
no formula. I have to run to the store and get the supplies Mama is
going to need to take care of him. You watch him until I get back.”
“Me?” Jethro took a step backwards.
“Okay, Dwayne can watch him for fifteen minutes. It’s the last time
he’ll see his son for a long time once he goes to trial.”
“The mother is in the other cell,” Jethro whispered. “She’s a junkie
and kind of out of her tree. She took me hostage and tried to break
Dwayne out of jail.”
“I hope y’all are charging her.”
“She shot Dwayne,” said Jethro. He leaned closer and whispered.
“She’s nuts. We’re charging her.”
“We are, Clover,” said Daddy. He caught up with us in the hall. “I
told Mama to expect a baby to look after and she’s kind of excited
about it.”
“I have to buy supplies for her, Daddy. This baby has nothing of
his own.”
“Dwayne’s been trying to take care of him,” said Daddy. “The wife
is…incompetent.”
“Yeah, Jethro said as much. I’ll let Dwayne hold the boy until I buy
what Mama needs, they I’ll deliver everything up the mountain.”
 “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to let him see his baby,” said Daddy.
“Jethro, unlock the run and take Clover in.”
I walked along the run until I got to the last cell where Dwayne
was sitting on his bunk. “Brought your boy, Dwayne. You can hold
him until I do some shopping. Y’all got nothing in your trailer for this
guy. What’s he drinking for formula? What brand?”
A surprised look on his face, Dwayne got off his bunk and strode
over to the bars. “He’s big enough for two percent milk. That’s what I
been putting in his bottles.”
“Okay. I’m going to the store and you’re in charge until I come
back and pick him up. My Mama is gonna watch him for y’all.”
Dwayne smiled. “Thanks for being so nice. I don’t deserve any
favors and I know it.”
“Sorry you got shot, Dwayne,” I said.
“Margo.” He glanced at her in the next cell.
Jethro unlocked the cell and I handed Dwayne his son.
Ignoring his shot arm, Dwayne took the baby in his arms and
smiled down at him. That confirmed it to me. He would do whatever
it took to provide for his son—even rob a bank.

Shadow Valley Market.

There was only one supermarket in Shadow Valley and they stocked
almost everything a person could need. I grabbed a cart and
concentrated on the baby aisle. Sleepers, diapers, bottles, a teddy
bear, milk, pablum, starter baby food, powder, cream, baby soap and
all the rest of it.
Loaded up, I lined up at the checkout ready for questions. Every
woman in Shadow Valley knew I lost a baby and they still eyed me
with pity on their faces whenever they saw me.
Before Barb on the checkout could say anything, I said, “Mama is
taking care of a baby for one of the prisoners in Daddy’s jail. The
baby has no caregiver.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet of Glenda,” said Barb. “What’s his name?”
“Wayne.”

Shadow Mountain.
Mama was waiting for me on the porch, a cup of coffee in her hand,
Porky and Alice sitting beside her chair. The dogs jumped up and ran
to greet me but they were more excited to see Lulu than me.
“I’ve got him, Mama. Dwayne cried when he had to give him back
to me in the jail. He does love his son and I think that’s what made
him rob the bank.”
I lifted Little Wayne out of his transport box and handed him to
Mama. “You take him and I’ll bring in the stuff from the market. He
had nothing of his own and I had to start from scratch. I hope I
bought the right stuff.”
Cradling the baby in her arms, Mama wasn’t listening to me. She
carried Little Wayne inside talking to him the whole way.
Mama had a spot set up for the baby in the spare room. From the
loft in the shed, she had resurrected my old wooden cradle—the one
Daddy had made before I was born. Mama had cleaned it up and
fitted it out with quilts.
“Aw, at least he has a bed. Nice one, Mama.” I piled all the stuff
from the bags on Ardal’s bed for Mama to sort out later. While the
baby slept in his new bed, I got my first cup of coffee. Mama took
pity on me and made me a chicken sandwich.

Alligator Alley. Everglades. Florida.

Moon had been broken hearted since Sean betrayed her trust and
tried to have Sonny eradicated from the cab of the Peterbilt.
Her broken leg—also snake-bit—had become infected and she
couldn’t even go for a walk or drive her car.
Her sisters, Luna, and Starlight, came over every day and cooked
her meals but Moon wasn’t eating much. She was too sad and lonely
and her appetite had all but vanished.
“What can we do to cheer you up, Moon?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do, Luna. The Fates have shown me
Sean’s true colors. He hated my son and tried to remove Sonny from
my life. I have to live with the outcome.”
“Do you want to go out and visit with Sonny for a while? I’ll help
you into the truck.”
“No thanks. I think I’ll lie down.”
 After her nap, Moonbeam woke refreshed. A thought crossed her
mind that did cheer her up and she acted on it right away.
She called Julio at the carnival.

Comfort Inn. Houma.

Luc LaFontaine gave Ardal a ride in his piro to Bobo’s dock where
Ardal picked up his Jeep and drove back to Houma. He booked a
room at the same hotel where he had stayed before.
Feeling comfortable in a familiar room, he tossed his duffel into
the closet and sat down at the desk. Before doing anything else, he
called the lab to see if the test had been completed.
“This is Deputy Ardal Thornheart calling, could you check and see
if my test is finished?”
“Hang on for a minute and I’ll check for you, sir.”
The girl came back on the line and confirmed it.
“It has been completed? Great. I’ll be over in a while to pick up the
results.”
“Your results will be waiting for you at the reception desk, Deputy
Thornheart.”
He showered, shaved, and changed his clothes before he went
out. There hadn’t been a lot of modern conveniences in the bayou at
Sylvan’s house on stilts, but that didn’t worry him. He’d get used to it.
The bayou was where he was destined to be. At least he believed it
was.

South Central Laboratories. Houma.

Ardal picked up the test from the receptionist, thanked her and didn’t
dare to open it until he was sitting in his Jeep all alone.
Ripping the envelope open slowly, Ardal eased the paper out and
held his breath while he read the results. The report said Ardal’s
DNA matched Sylvan’s sample and confirmed he was definitely
Sylvan Trehan’s biological son.
He let out the breath he was holding and realized how badly he
wanted it to be true. “I’m half Cajun and I belong in the bayou. It’s my
heritage. I can’t wait to tell Sylvan and Ember.”
 A huge wave of relief washed over him knowing he had found out
where he truly belonged.
“They were sure before I was. It must have been obvious to them.
I’ll get some dinner, then do shopping for Sylvan’s house. He could
probably use a load of groceries with an extra person to feed. And
for sure we’ll need beer to celebrate.”
 Chapter Four

Friday, July 23rd.

Comfort Inn. Houma. Louisiana.

Before leaving for the bayou, Ardal called Gilly to tell her the good
news. “I got the test results back from the lab and Sylvan is definitely
my father. The DNA test proves it.”
“I’m happy for you, sugar, but not happy for me. I’ll miss you too
much.”
“I’ll come visit you, Gilly, and I’ll bring Sylvan to meet you too. You
can also come to see us. Sylvan’s property is a little past Marc and
Tarana’s on the same side of the river.”
“But I can’t just pop down there whenever I need to see you…like
every day. I’m not sure I can do this, Ardal.”
Gilly was ready to cry, he could hear it in her voice. He hated
making her so sad when he was so happy.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure I can do it either. Living in the
bayou will take some getting used to. Give me a few weeks as a test
run.”
“Okay, as long as you’re not saying it’s permanent right off the
bat.”
“No, I can’t say that. Our house in Elgin will always be our real
home. It is to me and I miss it so much.”
“I long to move back there, Ardal. You’re right. Nine Hemlock Way
is our forever home and it always has been. All of our happy
memories are there in that house.”
He checked out of the hotel and loaded the Jeep wondering how
long he could stay in the bayou without Gilly and without Mirabelle.
Could he do it? It would take a lot of determination.

Shadow Mountain. West Virginia.

As soon as I was up and dressed, I drove up the mountain to see
how Mama was making out with baby Wayne.
After stopping to pet Porky and Alice on the porch, I opened the
screen door, walked into the kitchen, and felt a different vibe. The air
in our little mountain house was filled with excitement and activity.
“How are you doing, Mama?”
Mama laughed. “I’m so busy, Clover. Wenda is coming over this
afternoon to spell me off while I go to the store for a few things.”
“What do you need that I didn’t bring you?”
“Not much. Just a few odds and ends. Little Wayne is a good
baby. Feed him, change him and he sleeps most of the time.”
“I don’t want him to be too much for you, Mama. Did he cry a lot in
the night?”
“Only once. I changed his diaper and gave him a bottle and he
went right back to sleep.”
Daddy nodded. “Even though Dwayne tried to rob the credit
union, I still sympathize with him. I don’t think he’s had an easy life.”
“Circumstances can turn people into criminals but inside they
aren’t bad people.”
Daddy frowned. “You talking about Tarn? Don’t see why you like
that nasty boy, Clover. He ain’t one of those good-inside people
you’re talking about.”
“You don’t think so, Daddy?”
“Nope, I sure don’t. He was raised bad by a brutal, killer father
and I don’t see how he’s going to turn out good. Can’t see it
happening.”
“You could be right, Daddy.”
“I am right, girl, and you best keep your distance from him. No
good can come of you having feelings for him.”
“I hear you, Daddy.”
Mama set a plate of eggs, grits, and cornbread in front of me and I
dug in like I was starving. “Is Margo’s arraignment this morning?”
“Yep, can you and Jethro take her to Hinton? I’ve got mountains of
paperwork to do from her attempted jail break, trying to kill Jethro,
and then her shooting Dwayne inside the cell block, not to mention
abandoning her child.”
 “I didn’t check the trailer for drugs when I was there getting the
baby. I should have done a quick search.”
“That’s okay,” said Daddy. “I think we’ve got enough charges
against her. I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere for a long while.”
“She won’t have money for bail,” I said to Daddy. “You and Jethro
are going to be stuck with her until her trial.”
“That’s not a happy thought, Clover. Wish you hadn’t said that out
loud.”
Baby Wayne cried and Mama ran to get him with a big smile on
her face. Yep, this was working out for Mama. She was a happy
person taking care of the baby.

Bobo’s Boat Rentals. West of Houma. Louisiana.

Bobo wasn’t busy when Ardal arrived at the dock. He had no
charters booked, so he was just hanging around the docking site
cleaning his boats.
He helped Ardal unload the Jeep and carry everything to the
dock. Then they loaded it all into the big jon boat.
“Dis be a big load you take to your Daddy, Ardal.”
“Yep, it’s hard to get groceries on the bayou so I figured I’d take a
good amount with me while I had the chance.”
“Sylvan know you coming to see him?”
“Nope. It will be a surprise. I hope it’s a good surprise.”
Bobo nodded and grinned. “Bes surprise for him. His boy comin
home.”
“Thanks, Bobo.”

Sheriff’s Office. Shadow Valley. West Virginia.

He didn’t like doing it, but Jethro took the two Styrofoam containers
from the diner into the run and passed them through the bars to the
prisoners.
“Here’s your breakfast.” He turned to Margo. “As soon as you’re
done eating, I’ll be taking you to the courthouse in Hinton for your
arraignment on the charges against you.”
“Screw you. I ain’t done nothing and the judge will see right
through you assholes. They’ll let me go. Then I’ll go to the trailer and
take care of little Wayne. He needs me.”
Jethro glanced at Dwayne in the other cell and Dwayne shook his
head. He opened his container, picked up the breakfast sandwich
and took a bite.
“I’ll get you a coffee,” Jethro said to Dwayne.
“Thanks.”

As soon as I was dressed for the courthouse, I ran across to Daddy’s

office to help Jethro. “Morning, people,” I hollered, trying to sound
more enthusiastic than I was.
“Morning, Clover,” said Jethro. “Thanks for helping me with
Margo.”
“No problem.” I followed my cousin into the run figuring I might
have to put a spell on Margo if she went sideways on us.
Jethro was about to unlock her cell when Dwayne gave me a
shout out. “Did you see Wayne today?”
“I did. I drove up the mountain for breakfast and to see how Mama
was making out. All good up there, Dwayne. You don’t have a thing
to worry about. My Mama and her twin sister are both fussing over
Wayne and he’s got all the attention he can handle.”
Dwayne smiled. “Thanks, girl. I don’t know your name.”
“Clover. You can call me Clover.”
“Ready, cuz?” asked Jethro. He unlocked Margo’s cell and we
both went in to shackle her.
As expected, she screamed and struggled and made it as hard as
possible for us to get the shackles on her. Ordinary handcuffs would
not be enough in her case and we weren’t taking any chances on her
running.
Jethro let out a breath when we had her secured in the back of
the Bronco. “That was a day’s work, Clover. Be another day’s work
getting her into the fuckin courthouse.”

Hinton Courthouse.
By the time we got to Hinton, Margo was coming undone. Needing a
hit, she twitched and yelled and screamed as Jethro and I took her to
the holding cells in the basement of the courthouse building.
 Once she was locked up waiting for her turn in front of the judge,
she was the bailiff’s problem and not ours.
“She’s gonna be no good in front of the judge,” said Jethro. “Look
at the mess of her.”
“Not our problem.” I chose seats about halfway to the front of the
courtroom and we sat down to wait. “If we weren’t getting Margo
back we wouldn’t even need to be here.”
“Wish we knew that ahead of time,” said Jethro.
Margo’s case was the second one called. We lucked out, so our
wait wasn’t too long. The bailiff brought her from the lockup and
stood beside her in front of the judge’s bench.
The clerk read the list of charges Daddy had filed against Margo
Willoughby and she stood there quietly until the charge of child
abandonment was mentioned. Then she snapped.
“Liars,” she screamed. “Y’all are a bunch of liars. I didn’t abandon
my baby. I left him in his crib while I went to break Dwayne out of jail.
I was only gonna be gone for a few minutes, then me and Dwayne
was coming right back home. Little Wayne was sleeping and he
didn’t even know I was gone for chrissakes.”
The judge peered over his glasses listening to Margo, then said in
a deep voice, “The prisoner is hereby remanded into custody for a
psychiatric evaluation and I’m recommending a period of not less
than thirty days in a drug rehabilitation facility.”
Whack.
Down came the gavel. The bailiff took Margo away and the next
case was called.
Jethro smiled at the outcome. “Let’s go, Clover. Margo’s going to
rehab and she ain’t our problem no more.”
I gave my cousin a fist bump and we ran to the parking lot.

Trehan Property. Bayou. Louisiana.

Bobo tied up his boat and jumped out onto Sylvan’s dock. Ardal was
right behind Bobo with a big smile on his face.
Sylvan came out of the house, saw who was standing on his dock
and hurried down the slope to greet them.
“You got the news, son?”
 “I do. I have it right here in my pocket.”
“You come to stay with me for a while?”
“Uh huh. I brought supplies.” Ardal pulled the lab report out and
handed it to his father.
Sylvan unfolded the paper and stood still while he read it. A smile
spread across his face. “A happy day for me, son. Welcome home.”
“Thanks,” said Ardal. He took a step closer and hugged his father.
The happy reunion over with, Bobo helped Ardal carry the
supplies he’d brought to Sylvan’s cabin. One big room that served as
kitchen and sitting room with a small bedroom opening off of it. One
cabinet painted green Sylvan used as a pantry, a couple of shelves
nailed to the wall, a small fridge and a couple of coolers keeping the
catch of the day fresh.
When the boat was unloaded, the three of them sat at the table
and drank a beer together in celebration. “This has to be the
happiest day of my life, son.”
Ardal nodded. “Pretty happy day for me too.”
Bobo didn’t stay too long. He left and Ardal said to Sylvan, “I
promised I’d tell Ember when I got the results back.”
Sylvan smiled. “You’d better run over there and tell her, son. I can
see where the single girls around here are gonna be happy to have a
new neighbor who looks like you.”
Ardal laughed.
Having only been to Ember’s house once, Ardal hoped he
remembered the way to get there through the swamp. Meeting her
parents would be next. Ember was shy and she’d never been away
from home. Her family would be protective of her.
Thinking he was on the right path and going in the right direction,
Ardal jogged along for what he guessed was about a quarter of a
mile and he didn’t see the house.
“I’m going the wrong way. The swamp looks the same in all
directions.”
He pushed on a little farther and the house on stilts came into
view. The path ran behind the neighboring properties and Ardal
reached Ember’s house from behind. The house faced the river like
all the bayou houses did.
 He circled around to the front door and there was no one outside.
Ardal climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A large Cajun lady
opened the door and gave him a wary look. Folks who lived in the
bayou were nervous of strangers. Ardal had learned that already.
The woman—probably Ember’s mother—spoke to him in a dialect
so thick he couldn’t understand what she was saying.
“I’m Sylvan Trehan’s son, ma’am. Is Ember here?”
“Oui.” She turned and called Ember and said something to her
Ardal didn’t catch.
Ember came to the door smiling at him. “Is it true for you and
Sylvan?”
“Yes. I told him already then I came to tell you like I promised.”
Ember came outside and they walked down to the dock together.
They sat on the damp grass and talked. Mostly Ardal talked and
Ember listened.
“Do you live at Sylvan’s house now?” asked Ember.
“I’m staying with him for now. We need to spend time to get to
know each other.”
“Vrai.”
Ardal found Ember hard to talk to because she was so shy and
she didn’t say much. If he asked her a question, she answered it in
as few words as possible.
“I’d better get back before it gets dark or I’ll be lost.” He laughed.
“I don’t know my way around the bayou yet. Maybe you can show
me when you have time.”
Ember nodded and Ardal thought he saw a spark in her dark
eyes. Did she like him as much as he liked her?
On the walk back to Sylvan’s house, he thought he heard wolves
howling in the distance, but it wasn’t quite dark and the wolves
wouldn’t be out yet.
“Just my imagination because Rowan is out there and I can’t find
her. I have to come to terms with what she is and let her go. I need a
human girlfriend. That’s what I need.”

Hart’s Pool Hall. Shadow Valley. West Virginia.

An ex-cop, Frank Oakley was interested in hearing about the bank
robbery down the street and then Margo’s attempt to break her
husband out of jail.
“She’s a meth head,” I said. “The judge sent her for a psyche eval
and then to rehab.”
“What about the baby she left in the crib?” asked Frank. “Did child
services take him?”
“Dwayne begged me not to let the county take him. I picked him
up and my Mama has him for now. There was no one else.”
“Huh,” said Frank. “A bank robbery on Main Street is big
excitement for Shadow Valley.”
“Yeah, it sure is. Never happened before that I know of. Most of
the time it’s pretty quiet here.”
Frank wiped the long counter down and filled up a couple of
pitchers for customers.
I moved back and forth behind the bar waiting on customers and
talking to Frank at the same time. The pool hall was noisy and the
customers couldn’t hear us talking. We could hardly hear ourselves
talking.
“I’m thinking of going back to work in Texas soon, but that won’t
happen until you’re totally comfortable here running the pool hall.”
“You’re going to leave me, like… permanently?”
“No, not permanently. I have to work out with my Chief how I’m
going to handle it. Nothing is carved in stone yet.”
“Being selfish,” said Frank, “I don’t want you to go to Texas, Gilly.”
“I might not go. I haven’t even talked to Chief Calhoun yet. I’m still
on medical leave.”
“Do you have to pass a doctor’s exam before you go back?”
“Don’t remind me. The last time I was shot, I couldn’t pass that
fucker for weeks. I had to keep going back for the cop doctor to
check my leg.”
“Yeah, it’s tough getting back to work after an injury.” He glanced
down at his permanent injury and I felt sorry for him.
“Would you consider living in the apartment upstairs? I have an
extra one.”
 “Huh. You’re hitting me with a lot of stuff today, Gilly. Let me think
about it.”
“Sorry Frankie. Maybe I’m leaning on you a little too much.
Sometimes I need…” I trailed off not quite knowing what I needed.
“It’s okay, Gilly. I don’t mind you depending on me. Really, I don’t.
Sometimes I forget how young you are, you’ve accomplished so
much in your life already.”

Alligator Alley. Everglades. Florida.

Julio called Moonbeam back when he wasn’t so busy running the
carnival and they had a long talk about the carnival and about Sonny
and about their personal feelings for each other.
Julio’s crush on Moonbeam went back several years and with her
putting her new plan into action, he was elated to think he had a
chance with her.
“Where are you now, Julio?”
“We’re all set up in Houma, Louisiana for the weekend and part of
next week. One of our longer bookings.”
“I’m going to pack up and drive up to Louisiana. I should be there
by tomorrow night. Are you sure you have room for me in your trailer,
Julio?”
“This is a dream come true for me Moonbeam. To have you by my
side as we travel the country with the carnival, it takes my breath
away.”
Moonbeam ended her call to Julio happier than she’d been since
the day she tossed Sean off the roof of the Holiday Inn.
Her next call was to her daughter-in-law. Gillette owned the
carnival and Moon had to clear the new plan with her first.
“Hey, Moon, how are you doing?”
“Better, dear. Sonny is well too. He loves it in his truck.”
“I’m happy, Moon. So happy he’s finally settled.”
“I wanted to run something by you, dear.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“I’ve decided to move in and try it with Julio. I’ll help him run the
carnival the way I did with Zak for all those years. Something I’ve
had on my mind for a while.”
 “Wow, big change for you, but a fantastic idea. I’d love it if you
were with the carnival keeping an eye on things. Please go ahead
and anything you notice, please call me. I need more contact with
the carnival. Running it through Julio worries me and I wish I could
do it myself.”
“I’m leaving for Houma soon and I should arrive tomorrow. The
carnival is set up there for the coming week.”
“Wow, the carney is in Houma. Ardal is near there at his father’s
place. Let me see if I can catch him when he has service on his cell.”
“It would be wonderful to see him, dear. I miss him so much. I’ll
talk to you soon.”
 Chapter Five

Saturday, July 24th.

Hart’s Pool Hall. Shadow Valley. West Virginia.

Excited that Moonbeam had come out of her despair over Sean
betraying her and was now focused on a man who had always loved
her—a much better man—I called Ardal to give him the news.
I called several times and couldn’t get through to him because of
poor and sometimes non-existent service in the bayou.
On my fourth or fifth try he answered. “Can you hear me, sugar?
I’ve been trying to get you.”
“I can hear you. What’s up, Gilly?”
“Moon called and she’s decided to go to the carnival and stay for
a while helping Julio run it. From what she said, I think they’re going
to try it as a couple.”
“Oh, wow. That’s amazing. Where is the carnival now?”
“That’s another reason I’m calling. Julio is set up in Houma this
week. Can you go?”
“Sure. I’ll try to get up there as soon as I can. I’ll report back after I
talk to Moonbeam.”
“Thanks, sugar. I miss you way too much.”
“Same. I don’t like being separated from you, Gilly. I pictured
staying here for a long time—like maybe a month or two—but it
might not be possible.”
Wiping a tear away, I walked out of my apartment and unlocked
the door next to mine. The smaller apartment of the two where I let
Tarn Lamont stay for nothing.
Another error in judgement. Was my accident and the trauma that
followed clouding everything I did?
Was I going to include the apartment rent as part of Frank’s wage
too? I wasn’t sure about that. In case I decided to do that, I wanted
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Ndio. Jawohl!
Knabe und Mädchen sind 8 oder 9, oder auch 10 Jahre alt
geworden, ohne daß etwas Bemerkenswertes von außen in ihr
Leben eingegriffen hätte. Da beschließt der Konvent der Männer, der
nach der Beendigung der Ernte die große Pfeilerhalle der Barasa
tagtäglich füllt, daß das Unyago in diesem Jahre hier im Dorfe
gefeiert werden soll. Nachdem alle anderen Distrikte in den letzten
Jahren die Lasten des Festes auf sich genommen haben, ist es
Ehrenpflicht, jetzt hierher einzuladen. Dem Beschluß folgt sehr bald
die Ausführung; der Mond ist stark im Abnehmen, und vor dem
Neumond noch muß das Fest im Gange sein. Dieses Unyago besitzt
in seinem ersten Teil bei allen Völkern des Gebietes ganz gleiche
Züge: die Männer errichten auf einem in der Nähe des Festdorfes
gelegenen, möglichst freien Platz einen mehr oder minder
ausgedehnten Ring von einfachen Strohhütten. Auf diesem Platze
 Negertelephon (s.
S. 356).
spielt sich das Eingangs- wie auch das Schlußfest ab; die Hütten
sind die gegebenen Wohn- und Schlafräume für die
Mannbarkeitskandidaten. Ein ganz ausgezeichnet erhaltener
Festplatz mit allem Zubehör war jener Kreis von 50 Meter
Durchmesser, den ich bei meinem Besuch des Echiputu von
Akuchikomu aufnehmen konnte; die halbverkohlten Reste einer
ebensolchen Lisakassa, wie das Hüttensystem im Kiyao heißt,
waren als Erinnerung an ein früheres, frohes Fest diesseits
Akundonde am Wege zu sehen.
Es liegt in der Natur der ganzen Veranstaltung, daß beim Unyago
Knabe wie Mädchen sich vorwiegend passiv verhalten. Sie sitzen
tatenlos, stumm und ohne sich zu rühren jedes in seiner Hütte,
während sich in der ersten Nacht des Festes die Erwachsenen zu
 Drei Vegetarier vom Makuastamm (s. S.
187).
Schmaus und Trunk in wildem Masewetanz bewegen. Die Knaben
werden am nächsten Tage, jeder von seinem Mentor geleitet, unter
der Aufsicht eines Oberleiters in den Wald geführt. Dort schlafen sie
eine Nacht ohne jeden Schutz; nur am nächsten Tage dürfen sie sich
eine kurze Spanne Zeit einmal selbst betätigen; dann gilt es nämlich,
im Verein mit ihren Anamungwi, den Lehrern, die Daggara zu bauen.
Aber kaum ist die luftige Hütte im tiefsten Pori vollendet, so ist auch
schon die alte Sachlage wieder hergestellt; einer nach dem anderen
wird in jenem Häuschen auf ein sehr primitives Ruhebett von
Hirsehalmen gelegt; mit scharfem Schnitt vollführt der Wamidjira die
Operation; wochenlang liegen darauf die kleinen Patienten in langer
Reihe da, ohne in den langwierigen Heilungsprozeß irgendwie
eingreifen zu können. Erst wenn die Wunde verheilt ist und der
Unterricht in den Sexualien und der Moral mit allen Kräften
eingesetzt hat, gewinnen auch die Wari, wie die Knaben jetzt
heißen, mehr und mehr das Recht, am öffentlichen Leben
teilzunehmen; die kleinen Kerle werden übermütig und vollführen
manchen tollen Streich. Wehe der Frau oder dem Mädchen, das
sich, der Lage der Daggara unbewußt, in diese Waldregion verirrt:
wie eine Schar übermütiger Kobolde stürzt sich die Schar der
Knaben auf die Unglückliche, neckt sie, fesselt sie und mißhandelt
sie wohl gar. Nach Volksgesetz haben die Wari das Recht dazu,
denn ihr Aufenthaltsort im Walde soll jeder weiblichen Person
gänzlich unbekannt bleiben. Mit dem Hinausziehen in das Pori ist
der junge Sohn für die Mutter gestorben; wenn er wiederkehrt, wird
er ein neuer Mensch sein mit neuem Namen: an das ehemalige
Verwandtschaftsverhältnis erinnert nichts mehr.
In welchen Bahnen sich der Unterricht hier in der Daggara
bewegt, habe ich bereits früher zu schildern versucht; der
bierehrliche Akundonde und sein trinkfester Minister sind unstreitig
die zuverlässigsten Gewährsmänner in bezug auf alle diese
Weistümer. Es bleibt ewig schade, daß der überraschend schnell
erzielte „Anschluß“ der beiden mich um den Schluß der Rede an die
Wari gebracht hat; doch zur Kennzeichnung der hier herrschenden
Unterrichtsprinzipien genügt ja auch jenes mitgeteilte Bruchstück.

Kakallefestzug beim Unyagoschlußtag.

Für die Knaben erreicht das Lupanda seinen Höhepunkt erst mit
dem Schlußfest. Die Vorbereitungen dazu sind auf beiden Seiten
groß: im Walde werden die Wari von ihren Mentoren durch Rasieren
des Kopfes, Bad, Neueinkleidung und Salben mit Öl erst wieder in
einen menschenwürdigen Zustand versetzt, im Festdorf aber
beginnen die Mütter bereits lange vor dem festgesetzten Termin,
große Mengen Bier zu brauen und noch größere Haufen von
Festgerichten vorzubereiten. Und ist der große Tag endlich
gekommen, dann zieht es heran; hei, wie glänzen der glattrasierte
Kopf, das Gesicht und der Nacken in der strahlenden Tropensonne
vom triefenden Öl, wie stolz schreiten die kleinen Männer in ihren
neuen Prunkgewändern einher, und mit welch sicherem Takt
schwingen sie in der Rechten die Kakalle, jene uns bekannten
Rasselstäbe! Rechts und links hat sich die Mauer der
erwartungsfrohen Erwachsenen aufgebaut. Immer lauter, immer
gellender durchzittert der schwirrende Frauentriller den weiten
Festplatz; dort setzt auch schon die Trommelkapelle mit ihren
aufregenden Takten ein; aus rauhen Männerkehlen erschallen die
ersten Takte eines Ngomenliedes, kurz alles entwickelt sich herrlich,
urecht afrikanisch.
Die Neger sind Menschen wie wir anderen auch, ihr Tun und
Trachten ist demnach auch ebenso vielfachen Veränderungen
unterworfen wie anderswo. Von meinem mehr als einmonatigen
Newalaaufenthalt habe ich einen unverhältnismäßig großen Teil auf
die Festlegung des typischen Verlaufs aller dieser Feste verwandt.
Das ist eine Heidenarbeit gewesen; wollte ich ganz klug sein und
bestellte mir meine Gelehrten nach Stämmen geordnet, so durfte ich
sicher sein, daß die paar alten Herren wenig oder gar nichts sagten;
des Negers Intellekt scheint sich nur dann betätigen zu können,
wenn er im Kreise vieler Männer durch scharfe Rede und
Gegenrede gereizt und geweckt wird. So habe ich denn stets von
neuem auf mein ursprüngliches Verfahren zurückgreifen müssen,
den gesamten Senat der Wissenden, rund 15 alte Herren, Yao,
Makua, Makonde bunt durcheinander, zu meinen Füßen zu
versammeln. Dies hat mir zwar insofern geholfen, als nunmehr stets
eine rege Diskussion entstand, doch wie schwer ist es mir
geworden, nun das eine Volkstum vom anderen scharf zu trennen!
Dennoch ist mir die Aufgabe, wie ich sagen zu dürfen glaube, mit
viel Glück und einigem Geschick soweit gelungen, daß nunmehr
wenigstens eine Art Leitfaden über diese Dinge gegeben ist. Die
sicher bestehenden kleinen Lücken auszufüllen und die zweifellos
vorhandenen Ungenauigkeiten zu berichtigen, überlasse ich getrost
meinen Nachfolgern.
 Noch eins: in seinem Gesamtumfang und für alle drei genannten
Völkerschaften durchgeführt, nimmt das Studium der
Mannbarkeitsfeste in meinen Aufzeichnungen einen solchen Raum
ein, daß ich mir ihre Wiedergabe hier versagen muß; sie würde
ganze Druckbogen für sich allein beanspruchen. Auch noch zwei
andere Momente treten herzu. Was ich von dem Unyago mit eigenen
Augen gesehen, habe ich unverkürzt wiedererzählt, mit jener
Milieustimmung gleichzeitig, die nur das eigene Erleben
hervorzuzaubern vermag. Aber jene Szenen in Akuchikomu, Niuchi
und Mangupa sind nur winzige Teile aus dem ungeheuer
umfangreichen Festkalender, wie ihn das Mädchen-Unyago in
Wirklichkeit darstellt; über den ganzen übrigen großen Rest vermag
ich nur das zu berichten, was ich meinen Gewährsleuten verdanke.
Nun aber bringt jedes Referat leicht das Odium des Trocknen und
Langweiligen mit sich, und langweilig möchte ich um keinen Preis
werden; lieber verweise ich jeden, den solche Sachen im einzelnen
interessieren, auf das Werk, das ich vertrags- und pflichtgemäß über
alle meine Taten hier im schwarzen Erdteil und ihre
wissenschaftlichen Ergebnisse für das Kolonialamt zu schreiben
habe.
Das letzte Moment liegt auf einem andern Gebiet. Der Neger ist
in bezug auf sein Geschlechtsleben noch nicht im mindesten
angekränkelt; alles was sich auf das Verhältnis zwischen den beiden
Geschlechtern bezieht, ist ihm etwas ganz Natürliches, über das die
Leute unter sich eine völlig freie Unterhaltung führen; höchstens daß
man dem rassefremden Weißen gegenüber einige Zurückhaltung
zeigt. Nun ist der sexuelle Einschlag beim Neger unstreitig sehr
groß, ungleich größer als bei uns; es hieße zuviel gesagt, sein
ganzes Dichten und Trachten drehe sich um diesen Punkt, aber ein
sehr großer Teil entfällt ganz ohne Zweifel auf ihn. Dies tritt in
offenkundigster Weise nicht nur im Unyago selbst, sondern auch in
der mir gewordenen Darstellung zutage; es geht dort sehr natürlich
zu. Wie die Dinge bei uns als Folge der bei uns beliebten Erziehung
nun einmal liegen, ist für solch „heikle“ Sachen gerade noch in der
allerstrengsten wissenschaftlichen Darstellung Platz; für jeden
andern Zweck muß man sich ihre Wiedergabe versagen. Um es
nochmals zu betonen, nicht aus Rücksicht auf den Gegenstand
selbst, sondern lediglich auf das irregeleitete Gefühl des Publikums.
Traurig, aber wahr!
Von allen Völkerschaften des Südens von Deutsch-Ostafrika
scheinen die Yao nicht nur die fortschrittlichsten, sondern auch die
phantasielosesten, nüchternsten zu sein; ihre Mannbarkeitsfeste
sind tatsächlich sehr einfache Formalitäten gegenüber denen der
Makua und Makonde. Bei diesen geht es nicht ohne eine gewisse
Theatralik ab; die Makua pflanzen mitten auf den Festplatz einen
vielgegabelten Baumast von ganz bestimmten Eigenschaften. Er ist
von den Männern unter Absingung eines Liedes aus dem Pori geholt
worden; in langem Zuge wird er in den Festhüttenring getragen. Dort
steht schon der Leiter des Festes in der Pose eines Oberpriesters.
Unter seinen Händen muß ein Huhn sein Leben lassen; in eine
bereitgehaltene Schale fließt dessen Blut. In einer andern Schale
wird Holzkohle zu Pulver gerieben, in einer dritten Schale roter Ton
gleichfalls zerstoßen; rot-schwarz-rot wird mit allen drei
Ingredienzien sodann jener vielgegabelte Baumast geringelt. An
einer Stelle haben inzwischen Männer ein Loch gegraben; in dieses
legt man ein Amulett aus zusammengebundenen
Baumrindenstücken, füllt das Loch wieder zu und wirft über ihm
einen kleinen Hügel auf. Auf diesen pflanzt man jenen Lupanda
genannten Baumast. Und noch ein anderer Hügel wird aufgeworfen;
er wie auch jener erste waren in dem Hüttenring von Akundonde
noch sehr wohl zu erkennen. Dieser andere Hügel ist der Platz für
den vornehmsten der Unyagoknaben. Um diesen herum gruppieren
sich die anderen, minder vornehmen; alle aber sitzen dabei auf
Baumstümpfen, die, wenn auch nur einiger Schönheitssinn bei dem
Festleiter vorwaltet, genau in der Form jener beiden konzentrischen
Kreise angeordnet werden, wie ich sie bei Chingulungulu im Pori
sah. „Der Cromlech der Tropen!“ ist es mir damals durch den Sinn
gefahren, als ich vor dieser typischen „Steinsetzung“ stand, und
auch heute noch kann ich mich des Eindrucks nicht erwehren, daß
zwischen unseren vorgeschichtlichen Steinsetzungen und diesem
System von Baumstümpfen eine Ähnlichkeit nicht bloß der Form
nach besteht, sondern daß die Verwandtschaft sich vielleicht sogar
auf die Zwecke erstreckt. Wenn ein großer Teil unserer neolithischen
Megalithen wirklich Kult- und Versammlungszwecken gedient hat, so
ist nicht einzusehen, warum nicht auch unsere Altvordern auf diesen
ehrwürdigen Steinen Platz genommen haben sollten; auch der
Neger würde auf Holzsitze verzichten, wenn ihm hierzulande Stein
zur Verfügung stände.
Wäre ich ein Phantast, so könnte ich heute mit leichter Mühe den
Nachweis führen, daß die Makonde Feueranbeter seien! Kaum
haben die Männer ihr Likumbi gebaut, d. h. eine Hütte von der Art,
wie wir sie in Mangupa kennen gelernt haben, so zerstreuen sich
allesamt im Busch, um Medizin zu holen. Am Abend desselbigen
Tages geben sie die gesammelten Wurzeln einem alten Weibe zum
Zerstampfen im Mörser. Den erhaltenen Brei streicht der Mŭnchirắ,
der Oberpriester, nunmehr fünf bis sechs Männern tupfenweise auf
den Arm; dann sitzt man tatenlos bis in die Mitte der Nacht. Jetzt
beginnt der Munchira zu trommeln, unheimlich dröhnt der dumpfe
Ton des Instruments durch die dunkle Tropennacht. Alles strömt aus
den Hütten zusammen, groß und klein; man schießt und tanzt ohne
Unterbrechung, bis zum nächsten Nachmittag; dann findet die
Verteilung der Geschenke untereinander und an die Mentoren der
Knaben statt. Darauf große Festrede des Munchira: die sechs
Männer seien geweiht; wenn sie es sich einfallen ließen, zu stehlen
oder zu rauben oder sich mit den Frauen der anderen einzulassen,
so dürfe ihnen niemand etwas tun, die Männer seien sakrosankt. Die
sechs aber verpflichtet er, von nun ab drei Monate lang alle
Mitternacht die Trommel zu schlagen.
Sind die drei Monate herum, so beginnt ein reges Leben im Dorf;
Männer gehen in das Pori, um trocknes Holz zu sammeln, abends
tragen sie es unter vollkommenem Stillschweigen auf den Festplatz
nahe der Likumbihütte; die Frauen aber haben während der Zeit
ungeheure Mengen von Pombe bereitet; auch diese findet ihren
Weg zur Likumbi. In dieser Hütte steht ein Deckelkorb, Chihēro mit
Namen, klein und rund; in ihm ist Medizin. In diesen Chihero und auf
die Medizin spuckt jeder der Brennholzsammler ein weniges von der
Festpombe. Neben dem Chihero aber steht die Alte, welche die
Medizin im Mörser zerstampft hat; diese hebt den Chihero nunmehr
auf ihren Kopf, ergreift das Ende einer langen, eigens für das Fest
gekauften Zeugbahn mit den Händen und verläßt feierlichen
Schrittes die Hütte, das Zeug hinter sich schleifend. Schnell ergreift
es der erste der Brennholzsucher, damit es den Boden nicht
berühre; ein zweiter folgt seinem Tun, desgleichen ein dritter und
vierter. Schließlich schwebt das langgestreckte Stoffstück über der
Erde dahin wie von Pagen getragen. Vorne neben der Frau schreitet
der Munchira. Man umzieht die Festhütte. Ist der Umzug vollendet,
so nimmt der Munchira den Anfang der Zeugbahn und wickelt ihn
um den Chihero. Diesen hält er jetzt an das rechte Ohr; ein kurzes
Verweilen; er setzt ihn auf die Schulter, wiederum einen Augenblick
lang; der Korb wandert auf die Hüfte, aufs Knie, endlich auf die
Außenseite des Fußknöchels. Zum Schluß nimmt der Würdige Zeug
samt Chihero als wohlverdientes Honorar an sich.

Maskentanz beim Mädchen-Unyago in Niuchi.

Und wieder ist es Nacht; im schwachen Licht der letzten
Mondsichel ist der Umriß des großen Holzstoßes noch eben zu
erkennen. Mitternacht ist um etwa eine Stunde vorbei, da erhebt sich
aus dem Kreise der in Schlafmatten gewickelten Gestalten eine
lange, hagere Figur. Unhörbar schleicht sie auf den Holzstoß zu, ein
Feuerchen blitzt auf, um alsbald auch schon wieder zu
verschwinden. Doch bald knistert es von neuem; größer und größer
wird die Flamme, von ihrem Erzeuger mit rhythmischem
Fächerschwung angefacht. Jetzt erkennen wir die Gestalt, es ist der
Munchira. Schon nach wenigen Minuten ist der ganze, große Stoß
ein einziges Flammenmeer; zitternd huschen seine Reflexe über die
glänzenden Gesichter der das Feuer im Kreis umstehenden Männer.
Nun hat das Feuer seinen Höhepunkt erreicht. Eilenden Schrittes
umkreist es der Munchira; das Gesicht zum Feuer gewandt, läßt er
die folgenden Worte dem Munde entströmen: „Laß die Wunden der
Knaben schnell und schmerzlos heilen, den Häuptling aber, der
diesmal das Likumbi feiert, laß recht viel Freude an den Knaben
erleben.“ Dabei bindet er einen weißen Lappen an eine Stange und
fächelt das Feuer mit großen Schlägen; die Männer aber umstehen
das verglimmende Feuer bis zum hellen Morgen.
Das Feuer als Mittelpunkt einer für das gesamte soziale Leben
so einschneidenden Veranstaltung, wie sie die Feier der Pubertät bei
diesen Völkern des Südens darstellt, ist meines Wissens etwas im
Völkerleben Afrikas ganz Alleinstehendes und Vereinzeltes. Liegt
hier ein wirklicher Feuerkult vor, oder ist Rundgang und Ansprache
auch nur noch ein letztes, unbewußtes Überlebsel einer solchen
uralten Verehrung des lohenden Elementes? Ich weiß es nicht und
bin, offen gestanden, auch ganz außerstande, diese Frage ihrer
Beantwortung näher zu bringen; von der Hand weisen darf man die
Möglichkeit einer ehemaligen Feueranbetung beim Neger a priori
nicht, dazu wissen wir noch viel zu wenig von seiner
Kulturentwicklung. Daß noch manche ethnologische Überraschung
zu erwarten ist, dafür sind ja meine eigenen reichen Ergebnisse der
beste Beleg.
Beim männlichen Geschlecht ist die Hinübernahme aus dem
Kindesalter in die Klasse der vollberechtigten Männer eine zwar
langdauernde Periode, dabei jedoch ein einziger, in sich
geschlossener Übergang; eine Erinnerung an die gemeinsam
verlebte Fest- und Leidenszeit bleibt den Männern fernerhin lediglich
in einer selbstgewählten, freien Organisation, die man passend mit
dem Namen Altersklassen bezeichnet: die einzelnen
Unyagojahrgänge halten unter sich zusammen, bis der Tod die
einzelnen scheidet. Doch dieses Zusammenhalten muß man sich ins
Afrikanische übersetzt denken; es ist kein Verein und kein Klub und
keine Verbindung; die alten Freunde wohnen lediglich beieinander,
wenn auf der Reise einer in des andern Dorf kommt; sonst nichts.
Geheimbünde spielen hier im Osten bewußt nicht mehr in das
Wesen der Altersklassen hinein, ganz im Gegensatz zu Westafrika,
wo beides Hand in Hand geht, sich gegenseitig genetisch bedingt
und wo beides dann seinen äußeren Ausdruck findet in großen
Geheimbundsfesten mit Maskentänzen und andern geheimnisvollen,
auf das Erschrecken der männlichen Nichtmitglieder des Bundes
und der Frauen gerichteten Zutaten. Hier auf dem Makondeplateau
treten gegenwärtig alle drei Erscheinungen: die Altersklassen, die
Feste und die Maskentänze nur in sehr lockerem Zusammenhang
miteinander auf; gleichwohl spricht alles dafür, daß der Maskentanz
der Makonde von heute ursprünglich ebenso der Ausfluß eines
längst vergessenen Geheimbundwesens gewesen ist wie die ganz
analogen Erscheinungen der Neger von Kamerun, Oberguinea und
Loango. Auf diesem Gebiete der afrikanischen Völkerkunde wird
noch manche harte Nuß zu knacken sein.
Das Unyago des jungen Mädchens ist eine wahre Stufenleiter
von Kursen. Ich betone absichtlich das Wort Kursus, denn
tatsächlich besteht hier nichts, was an einen chirurgischen Eingriff
erinnert, mit nur einer einzigen Ausnahme, bei den Makuamädchen
nämlich. Eine allen Stämmen gemeinsame Einrichtung ist es, daß
auch jedes Mädchen beizeiten ihre Führerin durch das Unyago
bekommt, eine Freundin gleichzeitig für das ganze Leben. Unter der
Leitung dieser älteren Frauen und Mädchen macht die Schar der
Novizen zunächst einen Lehrgang durch, der inhaltlich ganz dem der
Knaben entspricht: die Kinder werden rückhaltlos über alle
Geschlechtsverhältnisse aufgeklärt und müssen alles lernen, was
sich auf das spätere Eheleben bezieht; dazu müssen sie auch
lernen, was die Sitte im Verkehr mit den Stammesgenossen und vor
allem mit den Familienmitgliedern vorschreibt. Das ist bei Yao,
Makonde und Matambwe einstweilen alles; für die Makua tritt noch
ein anderes hinzu: bei ihnen erfolgt wirklich eine Art körperlicher
Eingriff. Ich habe es zunächst nicht glauben wollen, bis ich mich
schließlich durch mehrfachen Augenschein habe überzeugen
können: ganz systematisch müssen die heranwachsenden Mädchen
die labia minora verlängern bis zur Größe von 7 bis 8 und mehr
Zentimetern. Der Endzweck der ganzen Maßnahme ist erotischer
Natur. Auch bei den andern Stämmen ist nach meinen
Gewährsmännern diese merkwürdige Sitte im Schwange, doch ist es
mir bisher noch nicht gelungen, sie bei Anhörigen von ihnen zu
Gesicht zu bekommen. Schon bei den Makuafrauen war dies schwer
genug; erst durch die geschickte Ausnutzung der Lage habe ich
Erfolg gehabt. In Newala verbüßten ein paar Frauen eine Art
Schuldhaft; ihre Männer waren die Hüttensteuer schuldig geblieben,
die nun von den Frauen abgearbeitet wurde. Ich erbot mich, die
wenigen Rupien in bar zu erlegen gegen das Recht, die beiden
Individuen „im Naturzustande“ photographieren zu dürfen. Zunächst
gingen beide unter Lachen auf den Handel ein, später aber wurden
sie schamhaft; ich habe sie schließlich noch im frühen Morgennebel
in unserer dunkeln Barasa auf die Platte bannen müssen.
Eröffnungs- und Schlußfest begleiten auch diesen ersten
Unyagokursus der Mädchen. Daß es dabei ebenfalls hoch hergeht,
habe ich an allen drei Orten, wo ich das Chiputu oder Echiputu durch
meine Gegenwart zu verherrlichen Gelegenheit gehabt habe,
persönlich verfolgen können. Der Durst ist bei dem vielen Tanzen
erklärlich!
Knabe und Mädchen werden nun allmählich heiratsfähig; ich
habe mich immer wieder bemüht, das Heiratsalter für beide
Geschlechter wenigstens annähernd festzustellen, es ist mir jedoch
nicht recht gelungen. Die Individuen selbst sind, wenn man sie nach
ihrem Alter fragt, stets ungeheuer erstaunt über eine solche Frage —
wie soll ich wissen, wie alt ich bin? will der Blick, mit dem sie den
Frager messen, bedeuten —, den Angehörigen aber ist das Alter der
Familienglieder ganz gleichgültig. Im allgemeinen wird sehr früh
geheiratet; der beste Beleg dafür sind die noch recht jungen Mütter,
die sich in jeder größeren Volksversammlung vorfinden, blutjunge
Dinger, meist nicht viel weiter entwickelt als unsere
Konfirmandinnen. Nach Matola ist früher die Massanjeheirat sehr
häufig gewesen; bei ihr wurden schon ganz junge Kinder von 5 bis 7
Jahren miteinander verbunden; man baute ihnen Hütten, in denen
sie wohnen mußten. Ab und zu soll diese Einrichtung auch heute
noch vorkommen. Nach demselben Gewährsmann herrscht sodann
allgemein der Brauch, daß, wenn eine Frau geboren hat, während
ihre Nachbarin dem freudigen Ereignis erst noch entgegensieht, jene
erste sagt: „Ich habe einen Sohn; bekommst du eine Tochter, so
sollen die beiden einander heiraten“, oder aber: „Ich habe eine
Tochter, bekommst du einen Sohn, so sollen die beiden einander
heiraten.“ Dies geschieht denn auch.
Der Neger ist ein Bauer, nicht nur seinem Berufe nach, sondern
auch, wenn er auf die Freite zu gehen sich anschickt; auf keinem
anderen Gebiet ist die Gesinnungsverwandtschaft mit unserem
Landvolk tatsächlich so verblüffend wie gerade bei dem wichtigen
Geschäfte der Werbung. Um es kurz auszudrücken: der verliebte
Negerjüngling ist zu schüchtern, um durch eine kühne Tat sein Glück
selbst zu schmieden, er benötigt dazu eines Freiwerbers; ganz wie
unsere ländlichen Heiratskandidaten auch. Die gegebene
Persönlichkeit für dieses Amt ist der eigene Vater; dieser macht
unter irgendeinem Vorwand bei den Eltern der präsumtiven Braut
seinen Besuch und bringt im Laufe der Unterhaltung das Gespräch
auf die Heiratspläne seines Sprößlings. Geht die Gegenpartei auf die
Angelegenheit ein, so ist sie auch bald zu einem befriedigenden
Abschluß geführt, sofern nämlich auch die Maid einverstanden ist.
Die jungen Mädchen sind in Wirklichkeit durchaus nicht in dem
Maße bloß Sache, wie wir anzunehmen geneigt sein möchten,
sondern sie wollen sehr wohl um ihre Zustimmung angegangen sein,
und mancher schöne Heiratsplan zerschlägt sich lediglich aus dem
Grunde, weil die junge Dame einen andern liebt. Auch in dieser
Beziehung besteht also nicht der mindeste Unterschied zwischen
Weiß und Schwarz. Selbstverständlich sind nicht alle Negermädchen
Heldinnen des Willlens und der Standhaftigkeit; so manche läßt sich
überreden, statt des heimlich geliebten jungen Stammesgenossen
einen ihr gleichgültigen alten Herrn zu nehmen; dann läuft sie
jedoch, wie das auch anderswo vorkommen soll, Gefahr, von den
Gespielen aufgezogen zu werden. Der „junge“ alte Ehemann aber
darf ziemlich sicher sein, daß nicht er es allein ist, der die Gunst
seiner jungen Frau genießt.
Die Heirat ist ein Geschäft, so denkt der Neger, ganz im Sinne
seiner sonstigen Psyche; der Kontrakt gilt denn auch erst in dem
Moment als abgeschlossen, wo die beiderseitigen Väter sich über
die Höhe des vom Bräutigam zu zahlenden Brautgeschenkes
geeinigt haben. Die Leute hier im Süden sind arm, sie haben weder
große Herden breitstirniger Rinder, noch auch blökendes Kleinvieh,
der ganze Brautkauf, wenn das Wort überhaupt eine Berechtigung
hätte, besteht demnach lediglich in der Überreichung einer nicht
einmal großen Menge Zeugstoffes.
Ethnographisch viel anmutender als die soeben skizzierte
Yaowerbung ist das Verfahren bei Makonde und Makua. Bei diesen
treten zwar zunächst auch erst die beiden Väter einander näher,
doch sind sie im Grunde genommen nur Vorpostenlinie; die
eigentliche Hauptschlacht wird nachher von den Müttern
geschlagen, denen entweder ihr ältester Bruder oder aber alle
Brüder kräftig Sekundantendienste leisten. Aus dem hier noch in
voller Blüte stehenden Mutter- oder Neffenrecht heraus ist die
Zuziehung gerade dieser Elemente auch ganz erklärlich.
Von der Standhaftigkeit junger Negermädchen weiß übrigens Nils
Knudsen eine nette, kleine Geschichte zu erzählen, in deren
Mittelpunkt er sogar selbst als Held steht. In seiner langjährigen
Vereinsamung auf Luisenfelde und im Verfolg seines vollkommenen
Aufgehens im Volkstum der Wayao hatte sich der blonde Nils
einstens auch ein schwarzes Weib genommen. Noch jetzt, nach
Jahren, rühmte Knudsen die Tugenden dieser Chipiniträgerin;
hübsch sei sie gewesen und häuslich und wirtschaftlich auch, einen
ganz ausgezeichneten Ugali habe sie gemacht, und was es an
Hausfrauentugenden im Busch noch mehr gibt. Da habe es das
Schicksal einstmals gewollt, daß er, seiner Jagdleidenschaft frönend,
an den Rovuma gezogen sei; schon nach wenigen Tagen sei er aber
heimgekehrt. Müde und abgespannt, mit dem breiten, pendelnden
Seemannsschritt, den Nils sich noch aus seiner jäh abgebrochenen
Schiffsjungenzeit bewahrt hat, schreitet er seiner primitiven
Behausung im Angesicht des stolzen Herrenhauses zu; alles ist still,
nichts rührt sich diesmal, im Gegensatz zu sonst, wo das schwarze
Weibchen mit dem verschämten Lächeln, wie es eben nur der
jungen Negermaid eigen ist, dem blonden Herrn und Gebieter
freudig entgegenschritt. Immer noch ahnungslos betritt der Jäger die
Küche, den gewohnten Aufenthaltsort der stets Fleißigen; sie ist leer;
ebenso das Schlafgemach; desgleichen der Wohnraum mit seiner
mehr als dürftigen Ausstattung. Deren Hauptstück ist, wie in jedem
afrikanischen Haushalt, der Tisch; auf ihn fallen unwillkürlich die
Blicke des Suchenden, und hier findet er endlich auch ein
Lebenszeichen und zugleich die Aufklärung über das Vorgefallene.
Ein wirres Knäuel ist es, von derber Bastschnur, aber sie ist bis zum
Übermaß verknotet. Nils Knudsen hat später die Knoten gezählt;
ihrer siebzig sind es gewesen; die Bedeutung des Ganzen war nach
den Erklärungen der Stammesweisen: „Siehe, mich haben meine
Verwandten von dannen geführt; sie sehen es nicht gern, daß ich mit
dem weißen Mann zusammenlebe; ich soll einen schwarzen Mann
heiraten, der weit drüben jenseits des Rovuma wohnt. Aber selbst
wenn ich so viele Jahre alt werden sollte, wie der Faden Knoten
zeigt, ich nehme den schwarzen Mann nicht, sondern bleibe dir, dem
Weißen, treu.“ So lautete Nils Knudsens Erzählung; teils mit
Rührung, teils mit dem Stolz umworbener Männer schloß er daran
die fernere Mitteilung, daß das Mädchen seinen Schwur tatsächlich
halte; es säße weit im Innern von Portugiesisch-Ostafrika, ganz in
der Nähe des ihm bestimmten Mannes, doch selbst der härteste
Druck seiner Verwandten sei nicht imstande, seinen starken Sinn zu
beugen. — „Die Treue, sie ist doch kein leerer Wahn!“
Sehr nüchtern ist die Negerhochzeit; fast könnte man sagen, sie
existiert gar nicht. Verlobung und Hochzeit, wenn man so sagen darf,
fallen zeitlich zusammen, denn sobald der Heiratskandidat die
Zustimmung der maßgebenden Faktoren erlangt hat, besteht
keinerlei Hindernis mehr für das Zusammenziehen des Pärchens;
höchstens, daß erst eine neue Wohnhütte für die jungen Leute
errichtet werden muß. Und wenn diese bezogen ist, dann beginnt
jener für das Empfinden von uns schlechten Europäern so seltsame
Schwiegermutterdienst, von dem ich früher bereits gesprochen und
geschwärmt habe. Kommt, laßt uns in uns gehen, auf daß wir uns
bessern! Dann würden wir doch in einer Beziehung die Kulturhöhe
des Negers erklimmen!
Nun aber setzt das Kapitel der gegenseitigen Heiratsmöglichkeit
ein. Wer darf einander ehelichen, und wem ist es durch
altgeheiligten Brauch verboten? Nicht einmal bei uns Weißen ist
diese Frage belanglos, um wieviel weniger aber bei Leuten, die sich
in sozialer Hinsicht den Urzuständen der Gesellschaft noch ein gut
Teil näher befinden als wir demokratisierten Vertreter der
sogenannten Vollkultur. Gehört es für die Weisen eines australischen
Stammes zu den höchsten Problemen der Sozialwissenschaft,
einwandfrei und fehlerlos auszurechnen, welche Maid aus der
näheren oder weiteren Umgebung gerade der Jüngling A des
Stammes heiraten darf, und welche für den Jüngling B in Frage
kommen kann, so ist es auch für die Heiratslustigen am mittleren
Rovuma nicht belanglos, wohin ihre Neigung fällt.
Es ist am Spätnachmittag; in der Barasa von Newala kauern 15
schwarze Männer würdigen Alters, wie schon Wochen hindurch, auf
der großen Matte; von Zeit zu Zeit erhebt sich einer der Alten
mühselig, verläßt mit steifgewordenen Beinen den Raum, kommt
aber stets nach kurzer Zeit wieder. Die Halle ist heiß, ein übler Dunst
liegt über der Versammlung, so daß der Europäer im gelben
Khakianzug, der so eifrig an seinem Klapptisch schreibt, sich wieder
und wieder an die schmerzende Stirn greift. Die Versammlung ist
sichtlich müde, sie hat aber heute auch ein gar zu schwieriges
Arbeitsfeld betreten. Stunde um Stunde habe ich, denn ich bin der
Mann mit den Kopfschmerzen, erst Nils Knudsen die Grundzüge der
menschlichen Ehegebräuche, der verschiedenen
Stammesaufteilungen, des Totemismus, des Vater- und des
Mutterrechts, kurz einer ganzen Reihe von Punkten aus der
Soziologie klarzumachen versucht, mit nur sehr mäßigem Erfolg, wie
ich mich bei jeder meiner Fragen überzeugen muß. Jetzt gilt es, im
Bunde mit Sefu, dem sonst so Gewandten, und dem blonden
Norweger, der sich noch immer nicht von seinen Darmstörungen
erholen kann, aus den 15 Stammesweisen über alle diese Sachen
herauszuholen, was zu holen ist. Von allen den kleinen Mißerfolgen
bin ich schon ganz wild geworden, wild und müde zugleich, so daß
ich nur eben noch mit einiger Mühe eine Frage in die
Gelehrtenrepublik zu schleudern vermag.
„Nun, alter Dambwala, du bequemer Mann, du hast einen Sohn,
nicht wahr?“
„Jawohl, Herr.“
 „Und du Nantiāka, alter Don Juan, du hast eine Tochter, nicht
wahr?“
„Jawohl, Herr.“
„Schön, kann denn nun dein Sohn, Dambwala, hier die Tochter
von Nantiāka heiraten?“
„Nein.“
„Und warum nicht?“ Ich muß wirklich sehr müde und abgespannt
sein, denn selbst die verwunderte Bestimmtheit, mit der das „nein“
herauskommt, erweckt in mir keine sonderlich erwartungsvollen
Gefühle. Ich horche erst auf, als in der nun erfolgenden Begründung
jenes „nein“ das Wort Litaua an mein Ohr schlägt. „Nini litaua? Was
ist Litaua?“ frage ich jetzt, schon völlig ermuntert und aufgefrischt.
„Nun, Litaua ist Litaua.“ Langes Schauri; auch die schwarzen
Intelligenzen, die gleich uns Weißen schon halb eingedöst waren,
sind wieder zu geistiger Rührigkeit erwacht; Kimakonde, Kiyao und
Imakuani, alle drei Sprachen tönen wie im Kaffeekränzchen
durcheinander. Endlich ist die Definition gefunden; in die
Fachsprache übersetzt, lautet sie: die Litaua ist der mutterrechtliche,
exogamische Geschlechtsverband, der alle diejenigen umfaßt, die
von einer Urmutter abstammen; es erbt nicht der Sohn des Vaters,
sondern einer der Söhne der Schwestern, und der junge Makonde
nimmt sein Weib nicht aus der eigenen Litaua, sondern er sucht sie
sich in einer der vielen andern Mataua. Bei den Makua sei das
gerade so, dort aber hieße die Litaua Nihimmu.
Den Abend dieses Tages — es ist der 21. September gewesen
— habe ich mit dem Gefühl durchlebt, auf einen der erfolgreichsten
Abschnitte meiner ganzen Afrikareise herabblicken zu können; um
ihn zu feiern, haben Knudsen und ich statt der einen Flasche Bier,
die wir uns sonst ehrlich teilten, uns diesmal deren zwei geleistet.
„Bier? Ja, woher habt ihr denn auf einmal Bier?“ Jedes Volk hat
seine Sitten, jedes Volk hat seinen Trank, so möchte ich dichten,
gleichzeitig indes hinzufügen, auch jeder Örtlichkeit ist ihr
besonderes Getränk angepaßt. Im heißen Tiefland Bier? Brrr! Aber
hier oben, den Wolken nahe und im kühlen Novemberost der
Abende, hei, da wäre ein Becher deutschen Bieres wohl angebracht.
Wie eine Eingebung ist mir vor Wochen der Gedanke durch den
Kopf gefahren; gerade trifft es sich, daß ein Dutzend Lasten
ethnographischer Sammelstücke nach Lindi hinunter müssen. Schon
am nächsten Morgen schreiten zwölf starke Männer eiligen Schrittes
gegen Nordosten der fernen Küste zu; wenn sie sich nicht aufhalten,
werden sie in zwei Wochen wieder zurück sein. In allen früheren
Fällen ist mir der voraussichtliche Termin der Rückkehr meiner Boten
ziemlich gleichgültig gewesen; diesmal haben wir beiden Weißen,
ehrlich gestanden, die Tage gezählt, und als sich an einem
Sonntagvormittag weit draußen im Busch das unverkennbare
Getöse von Wanyamwesiträgern, die dem Endpunkt ihrer Reise
zueilen, vernehmen ließ, da sind wir der großen Kiste
entgegengeeilt, die für uns so viel Schönes und Langentbehrtes
barg, nicht bloß schweren, deutschen Porter von Daressalam,
sondern vor allem die so lang vermißte Milch, die uns beiden
gegenwärtig stark abgemagerten Einsiedlern mehr als alles andere
nottut.
An jenem für mich denkwürdigen Nachmittage indessen hatte ich
durchaus keine Muße, an die materiellen Genüsse zu denken.
„Also dein Sohn, Freund Dambwala, kann Nantiakas Tochter
nicht heiraten, weil ihr derselben Litaua angehört; wie heißt denn
deine Litaua?“
„Waniuchi.“
„Und wo wohnt ihr?“
„In und um Niuchi.“
„Und du, Kumidachi,“ wende ich mich an einen andern, mit einer
funkelnagelneuen, buntbestickten Jumbenmütze bekleideten Alten,
„welcher Litaua gehörst du an?“
„Nanyanga“, tönt es prompt zurück. Blitzschnell ist der Name
niedergeschrieben; schon ruht mein Auge fragend auf dem nächsten
der Weisen. Der weiß jetzt schon, worum es sich handelt, denn er ist
einer von den klügsten. „Wamhuīdia“, kommt es von seinen Lippen.
 Aber so darf ich nicht weiter arbeiten; was ist ein Name? Schall
und Rauch; auch die Bedeutung muß ich kennen. Schon von meinen
Namenstudien her weiß ich, wie gern die Neger sich mit
etymologischen Erklärungen befassen; es bedarf auch hier nur eines
kleinen Anstoßes, um der Nennung des Litauanamens sofort die
Bedeutung des Wortes folgen zu lassen. Das Wort „Waniuchi“ habe
ich mir selbst als „die Leute von Niuchi“ übersetzt; in den hiesigen
Bantusprachen bedeutet ja das Präfix wa nichts anderes; doch die
Übersetzung genügt den schwarzen Philologen nicht, niuchi heiße
die Biene, und die Waniuchi seien Leute, die den Honig dieser
Bienen in den Bäumen suchten; die Nanyanga aber, das seien die
Flötenbläser im Kriege, nanyanga sei die Makondeflöte. Die
Wamhuidia endlich hätten ihren Namen von ihren kriegerischen
Vorfahren; diese hätten fortwährend Krieg geführt und alles
niedergeschlagen; der Sippenname käme her vom Verbum muhidia,
niederschlagen.
Die alten Herren haben an jenem Nachmittag trotz ihrer starken
Müdigkeit viel länger ausharren müssen als sonst; ich hatte Blut
geleckt und habe sie ausgesogen, bis ihr armes, des angestrengten
Denkens so ungewohntes Gehirn um Sonnenuntergang schließlich
völlig versagte. Doch einen Extra-Bakschisch hat es gegeben als
Lohn für die aufopferungsvolle Hilfe bei dem schwierigen Kapitel.
Selbst Moritz, der Finanzminister, hatte heute nicht seinen
gewöhnlichen melancholischen Hängemund, sondern verzog sein
braunes Negergesicht zu einem freundlichen Grinsen, als er nach
Feierabend hinging, um den Gelehrten das funkelnagelneue
Silberstück in die Hand zu drücken. Seitdem habe ich das
Sippenwesen mit aller Ausdauer zu ergründen versucht, und ich
muß gestehen, ich weiß nicht, worüber ich mehr staunen soll: über
die soziale Differenzierung der Stämme unter sich, ihren Zerfall in
ungezählte Mataua und Dihimmu (Plural von Nihimmu), oder über
die Tatsache, daß, wie ich annehmen muß, keiner meiner Vorgänger
auf dem hiesigen Beobachtungsfelde auf diese Einrichtung
aufmerksam geworden ist. Ich wundere mich in der Tat über diesen
Punkt, aber wenn ich es mir überlege, habe ich doch kaum Anlaß
dazu; zunächst bin doch auch ich monatelang im Lande
umhergezogen, ohne von jenem Sippenwesen das Geringste zu
ahnen; sodann aber ist es lediglich Zufall, daß in jenem
denkwürdigen Schauri vom 21. September die Antwort gerade in der
geschilderten Form fiel. Glück muß der Mensch haben, der
Forschungsreisende aber viel Glück!
Es bedarf keines Hinweises, daß ich nach jener folgenschweren
Entdeckung auch sofort wieder auf das Yaoproblem
zurückgekommen bin. Als von meinen Makua- und
Makondemännern ein Sippenname nach dem andern mitsamt den
schönsten Erläuterungen mir ins Notizbuch diktiert wurde, sprach
Nils Knudsen das große Wort: „Ja, so was haben die Yao auch.“
Zehn Minuten später waren bereits schnellfüßige Boten unterwegs,
um unten aus der Ebene von Wayaomännern heraufzuholen, was
irgendwie auf einige Intelligenz Anspruch machen durfte. Sie sind
auch alle gekommen, die Entbotenen: Susa und Daudi und
Massanjara und wie sie heißen. Leicht war das Examen auch jetzt
noch nicht, weder für mich, noch für die Auspressungsobjekte, aber
ich habe nach redlichem Mühen doch noch so viel
herausbekommen, um sagen zu können: „Nils hat wirklich recht,
auch die Yao haben so etwas“, ja bei ihnen ließ sich sogar unschwer
eine Doppeleinteilung in der Art feststellen, daß über den
exogamischen mutterrechtlichen Sippen noch eine Einteilung in
große Gruppen besteht, die von jener feineren Einteilung ganz
unabhängig sind.
Von den großen Gruppen des Yaovolkes, das heute über einen
außerordentlich großen Teil Ostafrikas verteilt ist, indem es vom
Schirwasee im Süden bis fast vor die Tore von Lindi im Norden
reicht, kennen wir die folgenden: die Amakāle in der Region der
Rovumaquellen; die Achinamatāka oder Wamwembe bei Mataka
zwischen dem Rovuma und dem Ludjende; die Amassaninga,
ursprünglich am Südende des Nyassasees; die Achinamakanjīra
oder Amachinga am oberen Ludjende; die Mangoche in der
Nachbarschaft von Blantyre. Die Angabe der Wohnsitze dieser
großen Gruppen, wie sie hier erfolgt ist, hat heute nur noch einen
historischen Wert. Durch die von mir früher schon geschilderte, ganz
allmählich erfolgte Abwanderung großer Volksteile sind die alten
Gruppengrenzen längst verwischt und kartographisch heute gar