Makedde felt tears sting his own eyes as he gathered her into his arms. He sat back and looked at her, wiping her tears away with a trembling hand. "I will be as gentle as I can."
Hating himself for the pain he knew he was inflicting, he placed his fingers softly on her temples. Neema hissed in pain but kept still. Makedde was alarmed at the thready pulse he felt in her temples; her heart was racing like a panicked zebra. He felt the glands underneath her jaw and felt his own pulse race with fear; they were swollen and hard, and was hot as a rock at high sun. He seized a stick used for stirring his medicines and held it in front of her eyes. "Mother, I want you to look at the stick. Follow it with your eyes."
She looked at him curiously, but nodded.
Makedde moved the small stick slowly to the left, watching her eyes carefully as they tracked it smoothly. He moved it back the other way, with the same result. His panic receded somewhat; she was not showing the signs he had feared. He stopped moving the stick, still watching her.
Her eyes stayed steady on the twig, but began to twitch uncontrollably. Suddenly her pupils dilated and she fainted.
"Oh great Aiheu, please, no!" Leaping forward, he cradled her in his arms gently, rocking her back and forth and weeping.
There was a huge commotion at the entranceway as Kinara came bustling in, ringing wet from his bath and out of breath. "Have you seen your mother? I've looked all over and...." He broke off, staring at her prone form. "What have you done! What's wrong with her??"
Makedde looked up at him, his eyes wild. "She’s very sick. Please, help me carry her. We've got to get her home--now."
Wordlessly, his father helped him carry the unconscious Neema down to the ground. Amidst a growing crowd, they bore her off to the small tree where the chief made his home. Carrying her up, they laid her gently upon the mat of leaves she used for a bed. Makedde lay a hand upon her forehead and groaned; the fever was already building rapidly. He could have asked for no surer sign.
"Makedde?" Kinara looked at him nervously, the confident tone missing from his voice for the first time Makedde could remember. "Son? What's wrong with her?"
Makedde was unable to speak for a moment; he sat staring at the ceiling of branches overhead, blinking back tears. Finally, he spoke in a trembling voice. "Walk with me." He looked over at Metutu, who sat in the corner, watching him with wide eyes and trembling. "Metutu, keep an eye on Mother for me. Let me know if she wakes up."
Makedde rose and led his father outside. "She is ill, Father."
"How ill?"
"She has Bhe'to."
His father looked at him silently. He shook his head in disbelief, backing away from Makedde. "People have died from that. Tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it."
"Make her comfortable till the end comes."
"Is that it?" The look in Makedde's eyes was unyieldingly grim. "Can't you do something? Isn't there even a small chance?"
"No. You know as well as I do there is only a matter of time. All we can do, we are doing."
"Please, Makedde, help her. Of all the shamans, you are the most skilled. This Aifor--or whatever his name is--doesn't he know how to heal this thing?"
"I'm sure he does. Aiheu is all-knowing, but shamans are not. Busara might have laid hands on her. Of course, that will not happen now."
"That’s it, isn’t it?" His father looked at him, anguished. "Am I the reason? Don't be afraid--you can tell me. I'll gladly do whatever you want. I'll debase myself in front of the whole council, Makedde, if that's what you want, but for the love of your mother, DO something!"
"There is nothing I can do."
Kinara grabbed him by the shoulders and looked wildly into his eyes. "My life for hers. All right, I thought he was ruining our way of life and I killed him! I admit it! My life for hers! Kill me--sacrifice my blood to your Aiheu! He’s only killing her to punish me!"
"Tell no one about Busara," Makedde told him sternly. "It will destroy you but it won’t save her. Aiheu does not want your blood. He does not destroy the innocent to punish the guilty. Pray for forgiveness for your own sake."
"I will walk in the light, I swear." Tears sprang to his eyes. "How long does she have?"
Makedde embraced his father, feeling the sobs wracking his frame. "Days. Hours. Perhaps minutes. Make each one count."
The two froze as a blood-curdling scream reached them.
"Makedde! Come quick!"
"Brother?" Makedde leapt from the limb like a shot arrow, scrambling across the heavy limbs as fast as he could go. Kinara struggled to keep up.
Makedde swung down from the upper branches and froze in horror. Before him Metutu tugged at their mother ineffectually, screaming for help. The mandrill had seized hold of a thickly knotted branch and was smashing her head repeatedly into it, blood running down her face in rivulets as she howled in agony. Her unearthly chant of, "Make it stop! Make it stop!" chilled Metutu's blood. Leaping forward, he laid hold of her arms and tried to pull her away, and was nearly pitched out of the tree for his efforts.
"Father, help me!"
"Oh gods!" Kinara joined his son, and together the three of them barely managed to pull Neema away from the limb. She convulsed violently for a moment, then lay still.
"What do we do now?" the chief asked Makedde. "What do we do?"
"I cannot forbid death, but I could prolong her life for a day or two with Mechoti. You would need to keep her from the poisons and she would have to be restrained, for in her pain she would try to end it any way she could. On the other hand, I could give her Dakim Bark. Her last moments would be free of pain, and she could say her farewells with a clear head."
"That is not a decision. It is a test of my love." He bit his fist. "I love her enough to choose Dakim bark. For the gods', if she must die, at least stop the pain."
Makedde drew close and hissed, “Don’t you dare try to lighten your conscience by confessing to her. You let mother die in peace, you hear me??”
Kinara’s jaw began to tremble. “Don’t be angry, son. I don’t think I could bear it now. Please?”
Makedde hugged his father for the first time in a long time. He then went for his supply of Dakim Bark which he soaked in water. The tea he gave to his mother, who responded soon enough. As Makedde and Metutu looked on, Kinara knelt beside Neema and held her hand.
“I’m not a fool,” Neema said. “I know I’m dying. I have no choice but to let go. Kinara, my love, you must also let go of your sons. They must find their path to happiness, and to their God. Promise me you will give them their freedom. Never do to another what you did to Busara.”
“Oh gods!” Kinara fell across her. “Oh gods, Neema! How sorry I am! How many times I would have brought him back!”
“Even with your own life,” she said. “I heard all.” She reached up and brushed his cheek with her hand. “Learn from it, my love. There is forgiveness in Aiheu, if you will only ask him.”
She glanced around. “Where is Makoko?”
“I don’t know,” Kinara said, kissing her brow. “I’d get him, but I’m afraid to leave you!”
“No time,” she said, falling back exhausted. “I love you all. Tell Makoko that I know he loves me. He didn’t have to say it--I could tell. I’ve been very lucky in love. I will wait for you all, and pray.”
The chief lifted her and held her close to his breast. "Son, give us a moment alone."
Makedde went outside and began to pack his materials. His hands shook so badly that it took him twice as long. Nervously, he began to unwrap and rewrap the grass cord that served as a handgrip on his walking staff. He struggled to get the winding even and firm, the way he liked it. Soon enough, he would have to braid some new cord out of the supple river grass. It was not easy to obtain or prepare, and it took quite a length to wind a good handgrip.