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 BEWITCHED
BORN OF DARKNESS #4
R. B. FIELDS
Copyright 2020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely
coincidental. Opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not
necessarily reflect those of the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, scanned, or

transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,
photocopied, recorded or otherwise without written consent of the author. All
rights reserved.

Distributed by Pygmalion Publishing, LLC

 CONTENTS

1. Christoph
2. Dawn
3. Christoph
4. Era
5. Draynor
6. Markula
7. Dawn
8. Silas
9. Kain
10. Dawn
11. Markula
12. Draynor
13. Dawn
14. Dawn
15. Dawn
16. Dawn
17. Dawn
18. Kain
19. Dawn
20. Markula
21. Draynor
22. Dawn

About the Author

For those who need a little magic to feel complete.
1
 CHRISTOPH

T he white is brilliant even in the dead of night.

I step away from the window glass, my eyes on the
sprawling landscape — mountains as far as the eye can see, thick
snow like a blanket covering every square inch of the prevailing
miles, marred only by the windswept brushstrokes of wind. This high
in the mountains, the snow is the only thing that stays constant:
waves of undulating white pushed this way and that at the whim of
Mother Nature. Even my home is always changing, though I’d argue
that is for the better.
The castle is nearly as old as I, but the upgrades have turned it
into a palace. If we must live our lives in this place of wind and
solitude, the amenities make it well worth it. We could spend our
lives toiling over books, doing scientific research to save humanity,
but my life has no flavor since I lost my daughter. So instead, we
enjoy our frivolous luxury.
I blink and catch the reflection of my face in the glass. Less than
a fraction of a second, too quick for any human eye to catch, but I’m
not human — never was. Dhampirs are not made as other vampires
are, with teeth and venom. We are born to human women. We tear
our way out of them when we are ready, creatures born in blood,
murdering the woman who carried our bodies within theirs, safe and
warm until the day we trade their lives for ours. There is no more
violent act than the slaying of the one who loves you most of all.
We all start our lives this way. And we never stop.
 It is no wonder the world wants us dead, though there are some
who deserve death far more than we do.
I stalk from the front window and through the foyer, the striated
marble tiles gleaming more brightly than the snow outside. My
footsteps echo against the high stone walls. The basement stairs are
equally noisy, but it matters little if the other dhampirs hear me —
they will not help me with this. But they will not stop me either.
I open the door at the base of the steps.
The screams begin immediately.
The stone T at the back of the room was brought in specifically
for this purpose, the restraints a lackluster brown. It does not seem
strong enough to hold a vampire, but dark magic is good for many
things, not the least of which is keeping all manner of creatures
exactly where you need them. And I need this creature spread-
eagled with his hands and legs and teeth utterly useless. He’s lucky I
didn’t crucify him.
He screams again, a wail that degenerates into a sob. The
vampire hanging from the restraints now is barely four feet tall with
curly blond hair that reaches his cupid bow lips. He’s new — it’s only
been a week since he turned. He won’t make it to see week two.
“I want my mother. I can’t see! Please, mister, I’m scared!” His lip
trembles, and in this moment, he looks every bit a frightened child.
That childlike appearance, his humanness, would have faded if given
a chance, but I need fresh meat for this — fresh blood. New
vampires are best for my purposes, and it’s much better to kill them
before they realize the extent of their power. Sometimes, you can
catch them before they figure out that they have a power at all.
Dhampirs don’t have powers to speak of, not above and beyond our
hyper-strength, our acute hearing, our tough flesh. As a race, we are
powerful but not magical. But I am.
I am.
I smile at him and head for the far wall — for my supplies. “You’ll
meet your mother again soon enough,” I say over my shoulder. I lift
the pumice bowl from its place on the table — two feet high and
three feet wide, it’s more of a large vase. Vampires are difficult to
drain if you can’t find a way to keep the blood flowing, but that isn’t
a problem that I have. Dark magic solves many problems when you
aren’t constrained by the laws of gods or men or your own kind.
What good are boundaries if you cannot protect those you love?
“Please,” the boy says. Tears flow freely down his cheeks and
drop off the end of his chin. It’s a trick, and one I know well —
vampires have many tricks. But I did not expect the deep-seated
manipulation exhibited by the beasts who have my daughter now.
That will not do.
She was taken from me once. I’ll not let those animals keep her
from me again.
I’ll kill them first.
 V ampire P rophecy :

“O ne will rise .
A nd she will be forged of bone and flesh , a
love like no other — inamorata . A nd she alone shall force the
heavens wide . T hen shall the race of vampire fall . B y their own
hand , by their own blood , they shall splinter from the inside ,
brother against brother , none left standing but the guilty .
A nd when our kind spills her blood , so the race of vampire
will finally end .”
2
 DAWN

“H ow long have you known?” Markula demands. His

voice is a growl of thunder that rolls through my
bedroom and vibrates my marrow, but Era does not appear
intimidated. He sits beside Silas in the wingbacks along one side of
the bed, Kain on the other side of the mattress. Markula glowers
from the foot of the bed, his ruby eyes bright with rage, his big arms
crossed. The jagged scar down the middle of his chest, partially
obscured by the red tattoos that snake over every inch of him from
neck to ankle, remains a constant reminder of the time we almost
lost him.
I’m still in shock. It’s all I can do to tug the crimson sheets
around me as I sit back against the headboard. Draynor’s shoulder
against mine is a welcome respite — maybe the only thing tethering
me to reality.
What Era is saying seems … impossible. I know I have hunter
blood running through my veins — thanks, Mom. I also know my
mother was part witch, murdered by vampires for using their blood
to put a protective spell on me. I sometimes wonder how her
parents found one another — whether they considered the
implications of bringing a half-witch half-hunter child into the world.
Maybe they figured she’d be safe, and maybe she even was until she
met my … dad?
No, my father can’t be a vampire — it doesn’t make sense.
Hunters and vampires are instinctively repulsed by one another. It’s
weird enough that I’m here — that I can possibly be a fated match
for any of them, let alone all of them. Well, all except Era. Our
relationship remains to be seen, though I’ve grown quite fond of him
in recent weeks.
“He’s not a full vampire,” Era says. “Dawn’s dad is a dhampir.”
Markula does not respond — he stares, waiting. Silas appears
shaken, his blond hair mussed, his broody Sons of Anarchy vibe in
full force, but no mortal man can match the intensity in his glittering
violet irises.
“Why would you keep this from us?” Draynor says, his bass
rumbling against my back. I turn. He does not appear shaken or
confused — he looks angry, as angry as any stereotypical-movie-
vampire can. His black hair is so shiny it appears wet, and his
charcoal eyes blaze with a fire brighter than the red of Markula’s
ruby irises. “You knew from the beginning, didn’t you? Weeks now,
and you didn’t tell any of us?” But I know what he really wants to
say: How could you not tell me? Draynor and Era have known one
another for centuries, were sired by the same vampire, which might
be why they look so similar. Era’s jaw might be a bit more square, a
little more Antonio Banderas, but either one would give Dracula a
run for his money.
“Many reasons. There was enough to deal with already,” Era says
now. “You all needed time to heal. I wasn’t sure what the
implications might be. And I wasn’t a fixture here when I came upon
this information.” He meets my eyes. “I wasn’t a fated match like the
others. It was better for me to build trust, ensure that you might
believe me. If you’ll recall, the last time there was the slightest bit of
upheaval, you threw me to the wolves to fend for myself. You’ll
forgive me if I wasn’t yet ready to trust that this information would
be met with belief and open arms.”
He has a point there. Just a few weeks ago, Kain stole my blade
in a fit of jealousy the same day Era came into the house. The
others blamed him, and nearly got him killed when the vampires
who were after us ambushed him on his way home. He never should
have been out there alone. It wasn’t fair.
 “It doesn’t matter when he found out,” I say, before Markula
decides to rip his head off — if the glitter in his gaze is any
indication, he wants to. “I thought vampires couldn’t impregnate
humans. How is this even possible?”
Draynor’s eyes darken. “Unlike full vampires, dhampirs don’t have
the pesky burden of hive leaders — they don’t need permission to
procreate. They have no rules, no loyalties, no shame.”
Silas nods. “Dhampirs are the worst of us. Violent. But most
mortals don’t realize that they’re dealing with monsters until it’s too
late — they don’t deteriorate the way we do, usually appear more
human, and for far longer. I’d guess that he raped your mother
without knowing she was a witch. She put a hex on herself to
protect her from the birth, to keep you from turning and clawing
your way out of her — to render you immune to his blood.”
“But if I’m a vampire … does that mean I’m already immortal?”
My brain is reeling. How is this possible? How?
Era shakes his head. “The hex your mother put on you blocks
everything — without the influence of his blood, you’ll live and die
like a mortal. And dhampirs don’t live forever. They live longer than
humans do, 200 years, maybe, but you’re only a quarter vampire.
The more diluted the blood gets, the fewer vampire qualities you
possess.”
“So … ” I blink, trying to wrap my head around all this. “If I want
to stay with you, I still have to turn — become one of you.
Otherwise, I might only outlive a normal mortal by fifty years, give
or take?”
Markula nods. “Yes.”
“No wonder I never wanted to hunt vampires,” I say, forcing a
smile. “No interest in killing my own.” But something else is
bothering me. “Will removing the hex kill me? If I possess both
hunter blood and vampire blood, it seems that my body might freak
all the way out. My blood might start fighting itself like I have an
autoimmune disease.”
But Kain’s already shaking his head. “No, I think we can cross
that concern off the list. In my research over the past few weeks, I
located the case of a hunter impregnated by a dhampir. The infant
killed her when it tore out of her at birth, but the hunter didn’t die
from having fetal blood mixing with hers. And her hunter’s blood
didn’t attack the fetus — that would be the biggest indication that
the situation would end badly. For whatever reason, it appears that
there’s some kind of protection when conflicting blood exists within
one body. If we remove the hex, in theory, you should become one
of us. Vampire blood is already in your veins, both from us and from
your dhampir father, and without the immunity granted by the hex,
your vampire side would likely overtake your human side.”
I frown — that I’ll turn is all well and good, but I can’t help
feeling that I’ve been lied to. I’ve only just forgiven Kain for holding
things back about the prophecy. “So when you told me that hunters
are always repulsed by vampires and dhampirs, that I was the first
hunter you ever knew to be attracted to your kind … were you all
lying to me? If dhampirs routinely procreate with humans … ”
Kain’s amber eyes darken — he’s the smallest of them, but still a
foot taller than me and muscular in a Calvin Klein way. “There is no
lust involved. The hunter I read about … it was forced. An
experiment. One that has been repeated for certainty.”
I blink. Repeated for certainty? “So, dhampirs are known to
capture hunters and get them pregnant just to see what will
happen?”
“It still serves to maintain their bloodline,” Kain says. “And they
might feel that they’re protecting themselves at the same time —
destroying hunters at the birth means fewer humans out there who
know what they are … fewer people who might kill them if given a
chance. They probably enjoy torturing hunters for the same reason,
though they seem to enjoy hurting all humans.” Torture. Dhampirs
and vampires alike tend to look down on humans — our hive is the
exception. “We can only hope that our blood is stronger than the
influence of the dhampir blood,” Kain goes on. “You can drink from
us when the time comes, hope that our influence is enough to avoid
madness.”
“Madness?”
Kain’s voice is low. “Dhampirs are prone to violence, to certain
emotional maladies, most notably an almost psychotic rage. Some
will kill anything that comes near.”
Ah. So this information, that I’m already part dhampir, is bad
news. If I have dhampir blood in my veins … it might make me
scary. It might make me insane. Psychotic. At my back, Draynor has
tensed. He’s usually the calm one, the one who helps ease pain — if
he’s worried, this is definitely a problem.
“I need to meet him,” I say, though I don’t recognize my voice —
tight, too high. “My father. I want to … see what he is. If he’s awful,
if his blood will make me insane, maybe we shouldn’t risk it.”
Era pushes himself to standing so suddenly that I jump, and I am
not prone to startling. I must be more wound up than I realize.
“Getting to him will not be easy,” Era says. “What I saw … it
wasn’t pleasant. He has a level of rage in him I have not often seen,
even in other dhampirs.” He meets my eyes. “The humans, your
mother, hid his child from him. Our race killed her and forced you
into hiding. I can’t see his life since your birth because there’s some
kind of block, but if his rage has grown, if he’s let the wound of
losing his child fester, it’s unlikely he’ll tolerate full vampires at all.
He’ll likely kill all of us on sight.”
Silas frowns. “And the alternative is letting Dawn age and
eventually die because we can’t remove the hex without him?”
“This is fucking ridiculous.” I push myself off Draynor, the sheets
clenched in my fist so hard my knuckles ache. “How can he be the
only one who can fix this? Isn’t there a book of magical spells
somewhere that we can read?”
We all look at Kain. As our resident Librarian, his specialty is
translations — he’s a one-vampire reference section.
“There are lots of books on witchcraft,” Kain says, “but dark
magic is very specific to the user. It isn’t that he can remove the hex
himself, but he likely knows what she did, and there’s usually a
failsafe mechanism — a way to reverse it. Most long-term spells
have one. And with a spell to protect a child, he would have had to
be involved whether he recognized what she was doing or not. She’d
have needed his blood. Which means we will too.” Kain meets my
eyes. “If we want to remove the hex so you can become one of us,
if we want to make sure that the prophecy is null and void so we can
live without worrying some new threat may emerge from the
shadows … we need him.”
Draynor’s hand on my back is a comforting presence, relaxing the
muscles along my spine. “So how do we find him?” I ask.
Era’s eyes glitter. “I have one idea. But it will take power —
connection. We must be sure … we don’t want to mess this up.”
3
 CHRISTOPH

S he looks like her mother.

I suppose looking like me wouldn’t have been terrible —
I’m not awful looking without my fangs bared, lean and sandy-haired
with a strong jaw. But Shannon is her doppelgänger, curvy and
gorgeous with the black hair and sharp profile of any proper witch.
Dawn does have my eyes, though — brilliantly blue. Shannon had
blue eyes, too, but I see my heat in our daughter’s gaze.
I squint into the bowl, the black liquid shimmering with a ruby
glare in the lamplight. My daughter sits on the bed, chatting with a
group that seems to be more muscle than brain. But though she is
by far the smallest, they are all attuned to her. They are all watching
her, all these …
The hairs along my spine bristle.
Vampires. How could she be so stupid as to associate with the
likes of them? And what they want me to do … Unthinkable. They
are the scourge of the earth, and I will relish the day I can bathe in
their blood.
“Christoph?” The voice shakes, and in that frightened timbre, I
hear what the others who live in this place think of me. Reactive.
Unstable. They just don’t understand.
I turn.
The dhampir in the doorway is older than me but not nearly as
powerful — sallow skin, gray eyes, gray hair that hangs over the
collar of his shirt. Maksim does not subscribe to dark magic, but he
has no problem embracing the protective effects of my power,
basking in the knowledge that no vampire or witch will ever find us.
And this is critical for a dhampir like me.
The witches want me dead for perverting their magic. The
vampires always want to destroy our kind because we have no
problem killing theirs. But necessity breeds invention if you wish to
survive. I wish my daughter believed that. Instead, she lays with
beasts.
“Shall I dispose of it, sir?” Maksim cuts his eyes at the floor — he
rarely dares to meet my eyes — and I follow his gaze.
The vampire’s head lays in a pool of black blood against the
stonework. His blue eyes aren’t visible, just the back of his head, a
mess of curly blond locks, the front section wet with gore. The rest
of his body still hangs from the T, hands limp at the ends of his
bound arms, the stump of his severed neck shiny with damp. The
white bone of his spine looks like a pus-filled boil. A cancer. Like he
was.
Like all vampires are.
Maksim is still watching me. I draw away from the bowl. “Please
do.”
Maksim nods and releases the body from its restraints, wincing in
disgust. He grabs the head by its curly blond hair on his way out, the
creature’s dead eyes staring blankly ahead. I almost think I see it
wink.
Vampires. I watch Maksim disappear through the door, my heart
heavy with foreboding. Yes, I know what they want, that gang my
daughter associates with, but they will never find me. This place is
invisible, protected by a dark and powerful magic. The path here is
riddled with traps. Even if they figure out where I am — and they
might — they will all die if they try to traverse this terrain on their
own.
My choice is not an easy one, but it is clearly one I must make
soon. Do I let them find us? And if not, what are the chances of her
surviving the trip?
Shannon always seemed to know what to do, regardless of
whether she shared her thoughts with me. A stabbing and furious
heat hits me in the center of my chest at the thought of Dawn’s
mother — the one who hid my child.
But she is not there to hide my daughter from me any longer.
I grab my cloth and wipe the blood from my blade, then slide it
into the holster. The vampires — her vampires — will come. No
matter what they discover, no matter the perils, they will come. I’m
suddenly certain of it, but I have never before wanted to be wrong
as much as I do now. But will they come alone? Is my daughter
smart enough to say no? Is she smart enough to refuse those …
those … fiends she now calls family? My chest burns.
Dawn is all I have left in this life.
I’ll not let her die for the likes of them.
4
 ERA

S ilas, Draynor, and Kain sit in chairs near the window, their
heads together in discussion. Though they appear
secretive, they aren’t trying to hide anything, but they are nervous
— they dislike this part of the process. They hate spilling her blood.
They hate that I’m not one of them — inamorata. A fated match.
To them, she is all that matters, and to me … well, we’re still
figuring that out, according to Dawn. I’d have said, “We’re enjoying
one another’s flesh while we determine what the future looks like,”
but I suppose her words are as good as any.
And every day with her feels more poignant than the one before,
her scent sweeter in my nose. I did not believe them when they told
me she was their beloved — their inamorata. I thought it insane. I
resisted the feeling from day one. Perhaps I tried harder to resist
than they did, or perhaps I have some inner strength, or even …
prejudice against her kind. It has taken me some time to come to
terms with that one, but I think it’s true — I resisted her because
she was human. For if humans are worthy of love, then killing them
indiscriminately as I’ve done since I turned is horrifically wrong —
the guilt eats at me in quiet moments. This group appears to feel
the same.
But they only hunt the wicked. They have no need for guilt.
“Era?” Her voice is soft and sweet like music to my ear, though I
ignore that thought — that is the thought of a fated match, and I
am not beholden to fate.
 I reach for Dawn’s hair and let my long fingers tangle in her
silken tresses. She caresses me with her gaze. Markula sits behind
her, one of his thick arms around her rib cage — he still won’t allow
me to be alone with her. He talks a big game when she has me tied
to the bedpost, but I believe he knows I will not bite her — her
blood is deadly to us, and it has helped us to kill her enemies more
than once. It is more than the hunter blood, more than the witch
blood she carries. It is the hex.
But now, I need it.
Without a sensual connection, I’d be unable to see much of
anything, but we have found the blood helps. Being free of the cuffs
also helps — the restraints bind my arms and legs but also seem to
dampen my gifts. Freedom of mind and body alike appear to be
crucial to the process where Dawn is involved, though none of us
are sure why that is.
Markula knows it is time — I can tell by the tightness around his
irises. He traces his fingernails from her shoulder and over the lean
muscles of her bicep, her forearm, down to the slender bones of her
wrist. The blood pulses blue along the underside of her arm as he
turns her hand over and raises it, slowly, reverently, to his lips.
She closes her eyes and turns her head toward him, showing me
the deeply purple veins in her neck.
His fangs descend.
A saccharine stench, too sweet, too heavy, cuts the air like
smoke. He yanks his mouth away almost immediately, but I can still
see the ruby against the tips of his pearly teeth. He wipes his mouth
on his arm, making a gagging-spitting sound like a cat choking on a
hairball. She blinks and holds her arm over the sheets at her side.
We all watch the blood drip onto the silk. One drop. Two. Three.
The heavy sweetness intensifies. I fear I might choke.
When Markula presses a cloth to her wound, I lower my
fingertips to the silk sheets, relishing the burn of her blood against
the pad of my thumb. Not as intense as letting it drip onto my skin,
not as painful as letting it slip over the fat of my lips and into my
mouth, but it tingles sharply like it might blister. My fangs tingle, too,
the tips burning against my gums, but I will them back.
 The vision comes almost immediately.
In my mind’s eye, sheets of white silk undulate as if they’re
hanging from a clothesline. Curtains, maybe. But my eyes are still
open, and beyond those curtains, I see her, Dawn, her head thrown
back against Markula’s chest, his arm still wrapped protectively
around her ribs. Markula shifts to remove her tank top, freeing the
pale globes of her breasts.
“I love that this is the way to enhance your powers,” she says,
her eyes shining. Markula has freed her of her panties, too, though I
am not sure when. My hand rests on her naked thigh. I press my
other hand harder against the bloody sheets.
Markula leans back against the pillows, tugging her with him. He
watches me with glittering eyes, one hand on her throat as if he
might choke her, but I know it is a protective measure — Markula
may never trust me fully.
And then she’s splayed out before me, resting against the
Warrior, her legs spread, his fingers playing at the apex of her
thighs. She moans, grinding her pelvis against him, his tongue
caressing the soft skin behind her ear.
He watches me.
White curtains billow in my brain.
I shed my pants like a snake shedding its skin. She meets my
eyes as I climb up past her knees, keeping one hand on the stained
sheets. Markula uses two fingers to spread the folds of her pussy
wide for me. I’m hard, throbbing, my mouth watering, but I know
better than to lower my lips to her sex — Markula would have my
head for sure.
I slip my dick inside her, the wet, tight heat of her enveloping my
senses, but inside my head, the vision intensifies. It’s not white
curtains … snow? Yes, definitely snow, and a lot of it. As opposed to
a curtain in front of a window, this stretches on for miles and miles.
Even the horizon line is crusted in white, a line of ice against an
eternally gray sky. Does the sun ever rise here? Is it always this
monotonous night?
Dawn moves her hips against me, drawing a grunt from deep in
my belly. A hot burn spreads from my loins up through my ribs and
down over my thighs. My cock, sheathed in her heat, aches with
pleasure, and with every pulse of her hips, the vision expands,
widening, broadening, as if I’m on a conveyer belt that’s moving
backward.
Dawn moans. And …
There. The mountains stretch along the horizon, a jagged line of
peaks like blades stabbing the moon. The valleys between are filled
with shadowed crevices that feel like eyes.
A woman wrapped in a thick, down-filled jacket and leather
gloves comes into focus in the foreground. Long black hair billows
from beneath her woolen hat. Even her eyes are hidden behind
snow goggles.
And she’s not alone.
She looks up at her comrade. Taller than she is, but seemingly
impervious to the cold — he wears only jeans and a long-sleeved
sweater. And as he turns away from her, I can see through his eyes
… I can see the house. An enormous fortress of stone looms at the
height of the mountain, a dim yellowed light glowing from the
interior. He probably came from inside, though he wouldn’t have
needed a coat anyway. One of the skills dhampirs possess is that
they are impervious to temperature extremes. No frost can
penetrate his flesh.
“Please reconsider, Shannon.”
Shannon — her mother. And he’s asking her for something,
almost begging. This isn’t what I expected. The rage I saw in him
before led me to believe Dawn’s mother was but a vessel for his
offspring.
“You know as well as I do that this is the best choice, Christoph.
Living here, they’d all know — it would only take one of them to find
you, to figure out what you are — ”
“If the hex fails in the human world, what happens?”
“Then vampires will know she’s a hunter.” Her voice cracks on the
last word.
“She’ll want to kill them — they’ll want to kill her. But living as a
human, she’d be up against one or two at a time. Here, we’d be
ambushed. And I think we owe it to her to at least let her try the
human world before we hide her away forever.”
“As if the human world has anything to offer.” His face is a mask
of placidity, but it shouldn’t be … dhampirs don’t maintain calm. Did
we misjudge him? Did I?
He starts for the house, his hand on her shoulder. “Twenty
years,” he says to the stars. “It will go by in a blink.”
Dawn writhes beneath me, and for a moment all I see is her
face, her big blue eyes, her lips so pink with life. I thrust my hips,
supporting myself on my hands, on the bloody sheet, and I realize
my fingers are already blistering — my fingertips sting. But I don’t
care. I thrust my hips, shoving my cock deeper into her wet pussy,
making her breasts bounce against her ribs. Markula grabs hold of
one of them and rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
She cries out and groans, and when she closes her eyes, I follow
suit and watch … and watch.
Shannon follows the dhampir over the snow, her hair glinting in
the light from inside as they step onto the stone porch. “Yes. In
twenty years, I’ll tell her what she is. And when she’s ready, if she
wants to come, I’ll bring her here. But I can’t imagine she will
refuse. Even now, kicking in my belly, I can feel her … spirit. There is
a darkness in her, Christoph, but she’s feisty.”
“Feisty? That might be the spicy food.” He shakes his head, then
lowers his lips to the crown of her head. Gentle. Loving. “Humans
are such weaklings. Which is why, by the time you return, I’ll have
built a fortress for us.” His face goes grave. “But you must protect
her, Shannon. Kill any vampire who gets near her. They are the
biggest threat to us — to all of us.” They step into the gilded interior,
silhouetted by the wan light — candles.
“I will, Christoph. I’ll protect her with my life.”
The huge double doors swing closed.
My consciousness slams back into the present to find Dawn
bucking against me, her heels hooked around my hips, pulling me
deeper, her breath coming in rapid little squeaks that only makes me
want to fuck her harder. So I do, oh I do, Markula’s knuckles hard
against my belly as he manipulates her clit. At some point while I
was watching that snow-swept mountaintop, Draynor, Silas, and Kain
surrounded the bed, blocking out the walls beyond. Kain smiles
down at us, reaches between me and Dawn, and brushes his fingers
over her nipple.
She comes with a rush that clenches around my cock, and a
moment later, I feel the vibration from Kain’s fingertips in my body
as well, though he isn’t touching me, isn’t even close to touching
me. No … this is my gift. I’m feeling what she did moments before,
watching my own face as I fuck her, feeling the exquisite pressure as
her muscles spasm then release with orgasm.
I grunt and thrust one final time, my nerve endings on fire with
pleasure as I spurt into her. I try to pull back, but her feet are still
hooked around my hips. Her eyes are open now, her lips parted.
“What do you see?” she pants. That’s why she’s still holding onto
me, I realize. She wants to make sure I don’t lose the vision.
I explain as quickly as I can, my eyes on hers as I launch into the
final bit. “Your father adored your mother — this wasn’t rape. This
was love. But your father blames vampires for destroying his life. His
hatred for us is more intense than I thought. He gave up fatherhood
to protect you, let your mother raise you in a place they thought
you’d be safe — he won’t take kindly to us pulling you out of that life
now. Until us, you were hidden. Before Silas found you on that
bridge, vampires didn’t see you for what you were.” I’ve gone soft
inside her, but the warmth of her remains a comfort. I don’t want to
move.
“The timeline is messy,” Kain says, lowering himself into the chair
at the bedside. “As it often is with Diviners. If Silas hadn’t brought
you to us, Markula’s brother never would have been able to see that
version of the future. He never would have known about the
prophecy.”
“But if Silas hadn’t intervened, I’d have been killed by another
vampire,” she says. “Silas saved my life the night we met.”
Draynor takes the seat beside Kain, my old friend’s face pensive.
“Either way, vampires are what put you in danger that night,” he
says. “And we are why you’re in danger now. Your mother’s love
Another random document with
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libraries of Arabic literature, to compile local histories and poems,
and, in a measure, to become centres for the propagation of
intellectual thought.
That is the condition in which Leo Africanus found them in the
sixteenth century, when he first revealed their existence to an
incredulous and largely unlettered Western world; in which the
pioneer explorers of the nineteenth century found them; in which the
political agents of Great Britain found them ten years ago when
destiny drove her to establish her supremacy in the country. That is
the condition in which they are to-day in this difficult transition stage
when the mechanical engines of modern progress, the feverish
economic activity of the Western world, the invading rattle of another
civilization made up of widely differing ideals, modes of thought, and
aims, assailed them.
Will the irresistible might wielded by the new forces be wisely
exercised in the future? Will those who, in the ultimate resort, direct
it, abide by the experience and the advice of the small but splendid
band of men whose herculean and whole-hearted labours have
inscribed on the roll of British history an achievement, not of
conquest, but of constructive statesmanship of just and sober
guidance nowhere exceeded in our management of tropical
dependencies? Will they be brought to understand all that is
excellent and of good repute in this indigenous civilization; to realize
the necessity of preserving its structural foundations, of honouring its
organic institutions, of protecting and strengthening its spiritual
agencies? Will they have the patience to move slowly; the sympathy
to appreciate the period of strain and stress which these
revolutionary influences must bring with them; the perception to
recognize what elements of greatness and of far-reaching promise
this indigenous civilization contains? Or will they, pushed by other
counsellors, incline to go too fast both politically and economically,
impatiently brushing aside immemorial ceremonies and customs, or
permitting them to be assaulted by selfish interests on the one hand
and short-sighted zeal on the other? Will they forget, amid the
clamorous calls of “progress” and “enlightenment” that their own
proclaimed high purpose (nobly accomplished by their
representatives) of staying the ravages of internal warfare and
healing open wounds will be shamed in the result if, through their
instrumentality, the seeds of deeper, deadlier ills are sown which
would eat away this fine material, destroy the lofty courtesies, the
culture and the healthy industrial life of this land, converting its
peoples into a troubled, shiftless mass, hirelings, bereft of economic
independence and having lost all sense of national vitality? Thoughts
such as these must needs crowd upon the traveller through these
vast spaces and populous centres as he watches the iron horse
pursue its irrevocable advance towards the great Hausa cities of the
plains, as he hears the increasing calls from the newly opened tin
mines for labour, from the Lancashire cotton-spinner for cotton and
markets; as he takes cognisance of the suggestions already being
made to break the spirit of the new and admirable land-law, and of
the efforts to introduce a militant Christian propaganda; as he listens
in certain quarters to the loose talk about the “shibboleths” and
“absurdities” of indigenous forms and ceremonies, the
cumbrousness of native laws and etiquette.
 CHAPTER IV
THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE—THE LONG-DISTANCE TRADER

A broad, sandy road, piercing a belt of shea trees, gnarled and

twisted, their bark figured like the markings of a crocodile’s back,
from which peculiarity you can distinguish the true shea from the so-
called “false” shea, or African oak. From the burnt grasses, golden
flowers destitute of leaf companionship peep timidly forth as though
fearful of such uncongenial surroundings. The heat rays quiver over
the thirsty soil, for it is Christmas time and no rain has fallen for nigh
upon four months. On the summit of a blackened sapling, exquisite
in its panoply of azure blue and pinkey-buff, a bird of the size of our
English jay but afflicted with a name so commonplace that to
mention it in connection with so glorious a visitant would be cruel,
perches motionless, its long graceful tail feathers waving ever so
slightly in the still air. The sun beats downward shrewdly, and
combined with the gentle amble of the patient beast beneath you,
induces drowsiness. You find yourself nodding in the saddle until the
loosening grip of thighs jerks the rider once more into sentiency. It is
hot, dreamily, lethargically hot. All the world seems comatose, the
unfolding panorama unreal as if seen through a fog of visionary
reverie. But there is nothing fanciful about the rapidly approaching
cloud of dust ahead, which emits a swelling murmur of confused
sound. It takes shape and substance, and for the next half-hour or
so, drowsiness and heat are alike forgotten in the contemplation of a
strange medley of men and animals. Droves of cattle, among them
the monstrous horned oxen from the borders of Lake Chad,
magnificent beasts, white or black for the most part. Flocks of
Roman-nosed, short-haired, vacant-eyed sheep—white with black
patches. Tiny, active, bright brown goats skipping along in joyful
ignorance of impending fate. Pack-bullocks, loaded with potash,
cloth, hides and dried tobacco leaves, culinary utensils, and all
manner of articles wrapped in skins or in octagon-shaped baskets
made of parchment, tight drawn in a wicker framework, which later—
on the return journey—will be packed with kolas carefully covered
with leaves. A few camels, skinny and patchy, and much out at
elbows so to speak, similarly burdened. The drivers move among
their beasts. Keeping in the rear, with lengthy staves outstretched
over the animal’s back, they control any tendency to straggle across
the road. Tall spare men, for the most part, these drivers, small-
boned, tough and sinewy. Hausas mainly, good-featured, not
unfrequently bearded men, often possessed of strikingly handsome
profiles, with clean-shaven heads and keen cheerful looks. But many
Tuaregs are here also from the far-distant north, even beyond the
Nigerian border; their fierce eyes gleaming above the black veil
drawn across the face, covering the head and falling upon the robe
beneath, once white, now stained and rent by many weeks of travel.
From the shoulders of these hang formidable, cross-handled swords
in red-leather tasselled scabbards. Nor are the Hausas always
innocent of arms, generally a sword. But here is a professional
hunter who has joined the party. You can tell him from his bow held
in the right hand and the quiver of reed-arrows barbed—and, maybe,
poisoned—slung across his back. The legs of the men are bare to
the knees, and much-worn sandals cover their feet. Some carry
loads of merchandise, food and water-gourds; others have their
belongings securely fastened on bullock or donkey. Women, too,
numbers of them, splendid of form and carriage, one or both arms
uplifted, balancing upon the carrying pad (gammo) a towering load of
multitudinous contents neatly held together in a string bag. Their
raiment is the raiment of antiquity, save that it has fewer folds, the
outer gown, commonly blue in colour, reaching to just below the
knees, the bosom not generally exposed, at least in youth, and
where not so intended, gravely covered as the alien rides by; neck,
wrists and ankles frequently garnished with silver ornaments. Many
women bear in addition to the load upon the head, a baby on the
back, its body hidden in the outer robe, its shiny shaven head
emerging above, sometimes resting against the soft and ample
maternal shoulders, sometimes wobbling from side to side in
slumber, at the imminent risk, but for inherited robustness in that
region, of spinal dislocation. Children of all ages, the elders doing
their share in porterage, younger ones held by the hand (nothing can
be more charming than the sight of a youthful Nigerian mother
gladsome of face and form teaching the young idea the mysteries of
head-carriage!). Two tired mites are mounted upon a patient ox, the
father walking behind. A sturdy middle-aged Hausa carries one child
on his shoulders, grasps another by the wrist, supporting his load
with his free hand. A gay, dusty crowd, weary and footsore, no
doubt, tramping twenty miles in a day carrying anything from forty to
one hundred pounds; but, with such consciousness of freedom, such
independence of gait and bearing! The mind flies back to those
staggering lines of broken humanity, flotsam and jetsam of our great
cities, products of our “superior” civilization, dragging themselves
along the Herefordshire lanes in the hop-picking season! What a
contrast! And so the trading caravan, bound for the markets of the
south, for Lokoja or Bida—it may well be, for some of its units,
Ibadan or Lagos—passes onwards, wrapped in its own dust, which,
presently, closes in and hides it from sight.

A NIGERIAN HUNTER STALKING GAME WITH THE HEAD OF THE GROUND

HORNBILL AFFIXED TO HIS FOREHEAD.

(Copyright.) (Photo by Mr. E. Firmin.)

 Throughout the dry season the trade routes are covered with such
caravans and with countless pedestrians in small groups or in twos
or threes—I am told by men who have lived here for years and by
the natives themselves, that while highway robbery is not unknown,
a woman, even unattended (and I saw many such) is invariably safe
from molestation—petty traders and itinerant merchants, some
coming north loaded with kolas, salt and cloth, others going south
with butchers’ provender, potash, cloth, grass, and leather-ware,
etc., witness to the intensive internal commerce which for centuries
upon centuries has rolled up and down the highways of Nigeria.

A TRADING CARAVAN.
 CHAPTER V
THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE—THE AGRICULTURIST

Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! The sonorous tones perforate the

mists of sleep, heralding the coming of the dawn. Ashadu Allah, ila-
allahu, ila-allahu! Insistent, reverberating through the still, cold air—
the night and first hours of the day in these latitudes are often very
cold. A pause. Then the unseen voice is again raised, seeming to
gather unto itself a passionate appeal as the words of the prayer flow
more rapidly. Ashadu an Muhammad rasul ilahi! Haya-al essalatu!
Haya al el falahi! Kad Kamet essalatu! Another pause. The myriad
stars still shine in the deep purple panoply of the heavens, but their
brilliancy grows dimmer. The atmosphere seems infused with a
tense expectancy. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! La illaha, ila-Allahu,
ila-Allahu. Muhammad Rasul ilahi. Salallah aleiheiu, ... Wassalama.
The tones rise triumphant and die away in grave cadence. It thrills
inexpressibly does this salute to the omnipotent Creator ringing out
over every town and village in the Moslem Hausa States. “God the
Greatest! There is no God but the God!” And that closing, “Peace!” It
has in it reality. Surely it is a good thing and not a bad thing that
African man should be reminded as he quits his couch, and as he
returns to it, of an all-presiding, all-pervading, all-comprehending
Deity? His fashion may not be our fashion. What of that? How far are
we here from the narrow cry of the “Moslem peril”! Whom does this
call to God imperil? The people who respond to it and prostrate
themselves in the dust at its appeal? Let us be quite sure that our
own salvation is secured by our own methods, that the masses of
our own people are as vividly conscious of the Omnipotent, as free
and happy in their lives, as these Nigerian folk, ere we venture to
disturb the solemn acknowledgment and petition that peal forth into
the dusk of the Nigerian morn.
FRUIT-SELLERS.
 WATER-CARRIERS.

And now a faint amber flush appears in the eastern sky. It is the
signal for many sounds. A hum of many human bees, the crowing of
countless roosters, the barking of lean and yellow “pye” dogs, the
braying of the donkey and the neigh of his nobler relative, the
bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle. The scent of burning wood
assails the nostrils with redolent perfume. The white tick-birds, which
have passed the night close-packed on the fronds of the tall fan-
palms, rustle their feathers and prepare, in company with their
scraggy-necked scavenging colleagues the vultures, for the useful if
unedifying business of the day. Nigerian life begins, and what a busy
intensive life it is! From sunrise to sunset, save for a couple of hours
in the heat of the day, every one appears to have his hands full.
Soon all will be at work. The men driving the animals to pasture, or
hoeing in the fields, or busy at the forge, or dye-pit or loom; or
making ready to sally forth to the nearest market with the products of
the local industry. The women cooking the breakfast, or picking or
spinning cotton, or attending to the younger children, or pounding
corn in large and solid wooden mortars, pulping the grain with
pestles—long staves, clubbed at either end—grasped now in one
hand, now in the other, the whole body swinging with the stroke as it
descends, and, perhaps, a baby at the back, swinging with it; or
separating on flat slabs of stone the seed from the cotton lint picked
the previous day. This is a people of agriculturists, for among them
agriculture is at once life’s necessity and its most important
occupation. The sowing and reaping, and the intermediate seasons
bring with them their several tasks. The ground must be cleared and
hoed, and the sowing of the staple crops concluded before the early
rains in May, which will cover the land with a sheet of tender green
shoots of guinea-corn, maize, and millet, and, more rarely, wheat.
When these crops have ripened, the heads of the grain will be cut
off, the bulk of them either marketed or stored—spread out upon the
thatch-roofed houses to dry, sometimes piled up in a huge circle
upon a cleared, dry space—in granaries of clay or thatch, according
to the local idea; others set aside for next year’s seeds. The stalks,
ten to fifteen feet in height, will be carefully gathered and stacked for
fencing purposes. Nothing that nature provides or man produces is
wasted in this country. Nature is, in general, kind. It has blessed man
with a generally fertile and rapidly recuperative soil, provided also
that in the more barren, mountainous regions, where ordinary
processes would be insufficient, millions of earth-worms shall
annually fling their casts of virgin sub-soil upon the sun-baked
surface. And man himself, in perennial contact with Nature, has
learned to read and retain many of her secrets which his civilized
brother has forgotten. One tree grows gourds with neck and all
complete, which need but to be plucked, emptied and dried to make
first-rate water-bottles. A vigorous ground creeper yields enormous
pumpkin-shaped fruit whose contents afford a succulent potage,
while its thick shell scraped and dried furnishes plates, bowls, pots,
and dishes of every size, and put to a hundred uses: ornaments, too,
when man has grafted his art upon its surface with dyes and carved
patterns. A bush yields a substantial pod which when ready to burst
and scatter its seeds is found to contain a fibrous substance which
resembles—and may be identical with, I am not botanist enough to
tell—the loofah of commerce, and is put to the same uses. From the
seeds of the beautiful locust-bean tree (dorowa), whose gorgeous
crimson blooms form so notable a feature of the scenery in the
flowering season, soup is made, while the casing of the bean affords
a singularly enduring varnish. The fruit of the invaluable Kadenia or
shea tree is used for food, for oil, and medicinally. The bees receive
particular attention for their honey and their wax, the latter utilized in
sundry ways from ornamenting Korans down to the manufacture of
candles. As many as a dozen oblong, mud-lined, wicker hives closed
at one end, the other having a small aperture, may sometimes be
seen in a single tree. Before harvest time has dawned and with the
harvesting, the secondary crops come in for attention. Cassava and
cotton, indigo and sugar-cane, sweet potatoes and tobacco, onions
and ground-nuts, beans and pepper, yams and rice, according to the
locality and suitability of the soil. The farmers of a moist district will
concentrate on the sugar-cane—its silvery, tufted, feathery crowns
waving in the breeze are always a delight: of a dry, on ground-nuts:
those enjoying a rich loam on cotton, and so on. While the staple
crops represent the imperious necessity of life—food, the profits from
the secondary crops are expended in the purchase of clothing, salt
and tools, the payment of taxes, the entertainment of friends and
chance acquaintances (a generous hospitality characterizes this
patriarchal society), and the purchase of luxuries, kolas, tobacco,
ornaments for wives and children. It is a revelation to see the cotton-
fields, the plants in raised rows three feet apart, the land having in
many cases been precedently enriched by a catch-crop of beans,
whose withering stems (where not removed for fodder, or hoed in as
manure) are observable between the healthy shrubs, often four or
five feet in height, thickly covered with yellow flowers or snowy bolls
of white, bursting from the split pod. The fields themselves are
protected from incursions of sheep and goats by tall neat fencing of
guinea-corn stalks, or reeds, kept in place by native rope of
uncommon strength. Many cassava fields, the root of this plant
furnishing an invaluable diet, being indeed, one of the staples of the
more southerly regions, are similarly fenced. Equally astonishing are
the irrigated farms which you meet with on the banks of the water-
courses. The plots are marked out with the mathematical precision of
squares on a chess-board, divided by ridges with frequent gaps
permitting of a free influx of water from the central channel, at the
opening of which, fixed in a raised platform, a long pole with a
calabash tied on the end of it, is lowered into the water and its
contents afterwards poured into the trench. Conditions differ of
course according to locality, and the technique and industry
displayed by the farmers of one district vary a good deal from the
next. In the northern part of Zaria and in Kano the science of
agriculture has attained remarkable development. There is little we
can teach the Kano farmer. There is much we can learn from him.
Rotation of crops and green manuring are thoroughly understood,
and I have frequently noticed in the neighbourhood of some village
small heaps of ashes and dry animal manure deposited at intervals
along the crest of cultivated ridges which the rains will presently
wash into the waiting earth. In fact, every scrap of fertilizing
substance is husbanded by this expert and industrious agricultural
people. Instead of wasting money with the deluded notion of
“teaching modern methods” to the Northern Nigerian farmer, we
should be better employed in endeavouring to find an answer to the
puzzling question of how it is that land which for centuries has been
yielding enormous crops of grain, which in the spring is one carpet of
green, and in November one huge cornfield “white unto harvest,” can
continue doing so. What is wanted is an expert agriculturist who will
start out not to teach but to learn; who will study for a period of say
five years the highly complicated and scientific methods of native
agriculture, and base possible improvements and suggestions,
maybe, for labour-saving appliances, upon real knowledge.
Kano is, of course, the most fertile province of the Protectorate,
but this general description of agricultural Nigeria does not only
apply to Kano Province. I saw nothing finer in the way of deep
cultivation (for yams and guinea-corn chiefly) than among the Bauchi
pagans. The pagan Gwarri of the Niger Province have for ages past
grown abundant crops in terraces up their mountainsides whither
they sought refuge from Hausa and Fulani raids. The soil around
Sokoto, where the advancing Sahara trenches upon the fertile belt,
may look arid and incapable of sustaining annual crops, yet every
year it blossoms like a rose. But the result means and needs
inherited lore and sustained and strenuous labour. From the early
rains until harvest time a prolific weed-growth has continuously to be
fought. Insect pests, though not conspicuously numerous in most
years, nevertheless exist, amongst them the locusts, which
sometimes cover the heavens with their flight; the caterpillar, which
eats the corn in its early youth; the blight (daraba), which attacks the
ripening ear. In some districts not so favoured, the soil being of
compact clay with a thin coating of humus, intensive cultivation has
proved exhausting, and it is a study to note how every ounce of
humus is tended with religious care. Very hard work at the right time
is the secret of success for the Nigerian agriculturist. It is little short
of marvellous that with all he has to do he somehow manages to
build our railways and our roads. Indeed, if that phenomenon has in
many respects its satisfactory, it has also its sombre, social side.
One can but hope that the former may outweigh the latter as the
country gradually settles down after the severe demands placed
upon it these last few years.
A GWARRI GIRL.
 A HAUSA TRADING WOMAN.

Truly a wonderful country, and a wonderful people, a people who

with fifty years’ peace will double its numbers, a people whom it is
our paramount duty to secure for ever in the undisturbed occupation
and enjoyment of the land, precluding the up-growth of a middle-man
class of landlord from which the native system is free, and being so
free need never be saddled with.
 CHAPTER VI
THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE—THE HERDSMAN AND THE ARTISAN

The word “peasant” as applied to the Fulani is, no doubt, a

misnomer. I employ it merely to distinguish the herdsmen from the
caste of statesmen and governors, evolved in Nigeria by the genius
of Othman Fodio, but, as their recorded history throughout Western
Africa shows, inherent in this mysterious race whose moral
characteristics have persisted through all degrees of admixture with
the negro. The Fulani peasant is but rarely an agriculturist in Nigeria,
but he plays an important, if indirect, part in the agriculture of the
Hausa provinces. Over the face of the land he wanders with his
great herds—which may number upwards of several thousand head
in one herd—of beautiful hump-backed cattle, mostly white, ever
seeking “pastures new.” Speaking under correction, in Borgu only
does his settlement partake of permanency. Elsewhere he is a
wanderer. One month a given district may be full of Fulani camps,
come from where his fellow-man has but the vaguest of notions. The
next, not a single Fulani will be seen within it. But they return, as a
rule, the ensuing year to their old haunts. To the Hausa farmer the
M’Bororoji or “Cow-Fulani” are an invaluable asset, and he enters
into regular contracts with them for turning their cattle on to his fields;
and he buys milk from them. I struck several of their encampments,
at distances hundreds of miles apart. The first, at the crossing of the
Bako, between Badeggi and Bida, was in charge of a patriarch who
might have stepped out of the book of Genesis: a Semite every inch
of him: spare of form, emaciated in feature, with high cheek-bones,
hawk-like nose, flashing, crafty eyes, a long white beard and a
bronzed skin without a trace of black blood.
 A FULANI GIRL.

There is no more interesting sight in Nigeria than a Fulani

encampment. It is usually pitched well away from the beaten track,
albeit within convenient distance of a village. You rub your eyes and
wonder if you can really be in the heart of the Dark Continent, as
these gracefully built, pale copper-coloured men and women—one
may say of some of the young girls with the sun shining on their
velvety skins, almost golden coloured—appear tending their herds
and flocks, or standing and sitting at the entrance to their temporary
shelters. Even the latter differ frequently from the African hut,
resembling in shape the wigwam of the North American Indian. As
for the people themselves, you are aware of an indefinable
sentiment of affinity in dealing with them. They are a white, not a
black race.
I have discussed their origin and West African history elsewhere,[8]
and will only say here that delicacy of form, refinement of contour
and simple dignity of bearing distinguish this strange people, just as
the ruling families possess the delicacy of brain and subtlety of
intellect which impress their British over-lords. A fact worth
recording, perhaps, is that while the Hausa woman spins and the
Hausa man weaves cotton, the Fulani woman does both the
spinning and the weaving.
If the agricultural life of the Northern Nigerian peoples is a full one,
the industrial life, especially in the northern provinces of the
Protectorate, is equally so. It is an extraordinarily self-sufficing
country at present, and the peasant-cultivator and artisan are
interdependent, the latter supplying the domestic wants and making
the requisite implements for the former. The variety of trades may be
estimated from the old Hausa system of taxation. This system the
Fulani adopted, modifying it slightly here and there by enforcing
closer adherence to the Koranic law, and we are modifying it still
further by a gradual process tending to merge multiple imposts under
two or three main heads, with the idea of establishing a more
equitable re-adjustment of burdens and to ensure greater simplicity
in assessment. The Hausa system provided that taxes should be
levied upon basket and mat-makers, makers of plant for cotton-
spinners, bamboo door-makers, carpenters, dyers, blacksmiths and
whitesmiths, as well as upon bee-keepers, hunters, trappers and
butchers. Exemption from taxes was granted to shoe-makers, tailors,
weavers, tanners, potters, and makers of indigo; but market taxes
were imposed upon corn measurers, brokers, sellers of salt,
tobacco, kolas, and ironstone.
The chief agricultural implement is the Hausa hoe, the galma, a
curious but efficient instrument, which simultaneously digs and
breaks up the soil and is said to be of great antiquity, but which is
easier to draw than to describe. There is also in daily use among the
Hausas a smaller, simpler hoe and a grass-cutter, while the pagan
favours a much heavier and more formidable-looking tool. This
pagan hoe somewhat resembles our English spade, but is wielded in
quite different fashion. Iron drills, rough hammers and axes, nails,
horseshoes, stirrup-irons and bits are included among the ordinary
forms of the blacksmith’s art. Iron-stone is common in many parts of
the country and is extensively worked, furnaces being met with in
every district where the use of the metal is locally in vogue. It is to be
hoped that “Civilization” will not seek to stamp out this native industry
as the tin-miners have done their best—and, unless the promise
made to the smelters of Liruei-n-Kano by Sir H. Hesketh Bell is not
speedily carried out, but too successfully—to crush the interesting
tin-smelting industry. The history of native tin smelting in Nigeria
furnishes a remarkable proof of the capacity of the Nigerian native,
but is too long to set forth here in detail. Suffice it to say that for a
hundred years, a certain ruling family with numerous branches, has
succeeded in turning out a singularly pure form of the white metal
whose sale as an article of trade brought prosperity to the
countryside. When I left the tin district, owing to unjust and stupidly
selfish interference with immemorial rights, the native furnaces had
been closed for nine months and poverty was beginning to replace
comparative affluence.
PANNING FOR IRON.