The sweat rolled down Metutu's face, dripping off the end of his nose and making it itch. But he didn't dare raise a hand to wipe it away. He glared fiercely at the Euphorbia he was trying to uproot. Makedde had cautioned that he needed the plant undamaged; the virtue of the roots lay right at the skin. Scraped, they were almost worthless.
Metutu was locked in mortal combat with the plant. He bared his teeth and grinned at the root. “Sooner or later, you’re going to be conquered, and I’m going to laugh at you! You hear me??”
Of course the plant did not hear him. Metutu felt a little foolish arguing with it. He looked at the sensitive root endings exposed to the air and decided against using the sharp wooden digging stick Makedde had given him. Sighing, he set it aside and used much of his precious water ration to moisten the soil. Then he worked with his fingers to carefully scoop away the mud. He hissed in irritation as he felt his fingertips scrape against the small rocks embedded in the mud, but continued to uncover more and more of the plant until it finally gave up. Metutu had managed to outthink a plant, and he grinned in triumph.
“Stupid old weed! Did you really think you could win against my superior intelligence??”
Metutu bore the hard-won prize back toward his home in the baobab. The sun was hot, and he had no water left to quench his thirst. Worse, the mud that had caked on his hands was hardening into a cement that served to irritate the scratches in his skin. “Next time I’ll think to bring more water.”
There was a patient with Makedde. Uwezo looked miserable, and he was. Metutu was hoping to find Makedde alone to share his moment of triumph. And though he was loathe to interrupt a patient, he felt he should quickly show his brother him the bulb. “Hey, look what I got!”
Makedde looked up a little upset. “That’s nice. Right now I’m in the middle of....oh, look at your hands!”
“Oh, I scraped them.”
“Why not go pound your head on a rock while you’re at it!” Makedde sighed at the reckless youth. "God only gives you one pair of hands. There will always be more bulbs."
Uwezo laughed. “You know, that reminds me of....” He winced. “My sore throat. Sorry.”
Makedde turned back to examining Uwezo. “Metutu, the Bedango extract is right in the....” He looked around to point, but Metutu was already rubbing down his hands. “Hfff, well pardon me!”
Metutu dried his hands and stood next to Makedde to watch Uwezo describe his symptoms in dreary detail.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Uwezo droned on. “Today, however, all I wanted to do is sleep. Then when I lay my head down my pulse pounds in my ears. Tic tic tic all the time. I have a headache and my throat is sore. And there’s this dryness in my nose.”
“Not to mention the itching under your arms,” Metutu said.
“Yeah, that too.” He looked at the young mandrill. “I didn’t know you were a shaman too?”
“Not yet,” Makedde said. “So great Metutu, what is your diagnosis?”
"Brother, that sounds like Dol Sani."
Makedde burst out laughing, along with his patient. "Dol Sani is a CHILDHOOD disease. And, well, LOOK at him!"
The rather robust mandrill was a bodyguard for Kinara. He smiled indulgently. “Oh PWEEZE don’t tell my mommy!”
“So you’ve never had it before?” Metutu asked.
“Well no.”
“That’s right. You were an only child and you grew up on the edge of the village.” Metutu looked at Makedde with a wry grin.
“But he MUST have had it at SOME time,” said Makedde, unbelievingly. “Everyone gets that growing up. I mean, it’s almost tribal law.” He laughed.
Metutu shrugged. "I guess so. Still, the itchy arm pits. I was asked for my opinion...."
Metutu climbed down to collect more herbs. He resolved to make no more diagnoses that day.
"That's a fine young brother you've got there, Makedde."
"Indeed, Uwezo. He's come a long way." Makedde chuckled as he bent over him again, his sensitive hands exploring under the other mandrill's jaw, testing the glands there. "I remember when you couldn't GET him to use his own hands to pick up something. Now I can't get him to keep his hands off..." he broke off, frowning. Makedde sat back and looked at him. "Did you say your joints ache?"
Uwezo looked at him, confused. "Yes, a little. I'm not old enough for the Mifupa, am I?"
"No, that's different." Makedde stroked his chin and grinned wryly. "By the gods, I think he's right! You DO have Dol Sani!"
Uwezo looked worried. "How? I will be a laughingstock!"
Makedde patted him. "Nonsense. Nothing will be said by me or Metutu. Just tell them you have—hmmm--acute pediatric aesthenia."
“I’m glad you think my Pediatric whatever is cute, but let’s just say that I have the flu and leave it at that.”
“Fine.” He gave Uwezo an elixir of Protothecus milleri. “Now drink this.”
“Ugh! It smells nasty.”
“Dwink it or I WILL tell your mommy!”
Uwezo did not appreciate the joke, but he did appreciate blackmail. He downed the awful remedy that left him reeking of sulfur. “Oh gods!” He took the water gourd offered by Makedde and downed it all in a couple of gulps. “Ugh! Nasty stuff!”
He turned to leave. “You’re welcome,” Makedde said grimly. As Uwezo walked away, Makedde watched him. He muttered, “You DO have a cute pediatric aesthenia....” Laughing, he thought about Metutu’s emerging diagnostic skills. “I have to tell him about it."
Hearing a noise below, he looked down. “Metutu, I want to tell you something.”
But it was Kinara, his father. He looked upset.
"You could live a little closer to the ground, like civilized folk." Kinara was short of breath.
Makedde sighed. "What can I do for you, Father? Those backaches again?"
Kinara said, “Haven’t you done enough already?”
“What do you mean by that?”
"I know the love Metutu has for you, and I would not begrudge him anything. But I will NOT stand by and watch you corrupt him."
Makedde opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off. "Oh, no! Don't you try to deny it.”
“Why, because I give him a little work to do? It’s good for the soul.”
"PAH!" Kinara growled. "A little hard work is fine. But you have filled his head with dry grass! Lion stories! Meat-eater religions where a lioness nurses cubs with her own blood! My gods, did you think I would want my son to hear that perversion!"
“It is NOT perversion! I try to respect all people’s beliefs when they are sincere about them, but a god that lies and steals is no god of mine. I have dared to hunt out the God whose love is unconditional and whose heart is pure.”
Kinara thumped his staff down. "At least you don’t deny it. You were always too honest to lead our people effectively, so I didn’t mind when you wanted to be a shaman healer. But now you heal the body while corrupting the spirit. Who says that Pishtim--may he increase--lies or steals?? Since he is the source of all things and all truth, he can change the truth as he sees fit, and he can take back what he has given! See that you don’t offend him with your impious ranting!
“Me impious? Father, don’t you know your own son better than that? Hasn’t love given you eyes to see or ears to listen?”
“Don’t think I don’t still love you, for I have worked to keep your secret from the council. I’ve stuck my neck out for you, and I’ll continue to do so, but I will NOT have you taking Metutu from the true path! I’m sorry, Makedde, but you are no longer his teacher. I’m sending him to live with Busara. He will teach my son the old ways that have sustained us for generations. He will be made worthy to take my place when I die. Gods, how I wish I’d done better with you! I wonder if I could have done or said anything different. You send me to my grave with many regrets and a broken heart!”
“Father!”
“I warn you not to try and interfere. Don’t presume too much on our ties of blood, for I am still your leader and you are still my subject, understand?"
“Completely, SIR.”
“Don’t sass me boy! You’re not too old to get a few licks from your old dad, and I’m not so sure they wouldn’t do you some good!”
He whirled and left, descending the tree so abruptly that he almost fell to the ground.
The shaman sat on his haunches and sighed. He gazed at the painted drawings on the side of the tree's bole, where a stylistic portrait of Metutu was emblazoned on the bark. “The gods will have their way. Father, you have pulled him from the creek only to plunge him in the river." He looked through the swaying branches of his home to the bright azure sky above. It was a bittersweet victory, just another thorn between himself and his father when once they had been so close. “Touch his spirit, Aiheu. Bless my father in his darkness, and shine the light of wisdom into his heart.”