They had waited in the open field to watch as the moon broke above the
eastern horizon, sending faint pastel shimmers through the rows of
cane. The first shadow cast by the moon on this the fourth day of the
Yoruba week--the day sacred to Ogun--was the signal to begin.
"May Ogun be with you, son of Balogun."
Tahajo, ancient and brittle as the stalks around them, bent over and
brushed Atiba's dusty feet. His voice could scarcely be heard above the
chorus of crickets. "Tonight, at the first coming of dark, when I could
no longer see the lines in the palm of my hand, I sacrificed a cock to
Ogun, as a prayer that you succeed."
Atiba looked at him with surprise, secretly annoyed that Tahajo had
performed the sacrifice without his knowledge. But the old man had the
prerogatives of an elder. "What did the sacrifice foretell?"
"I could not discern, Atiba, in truth I could not. The signs were
mixed. But they seemed to hold warning." Concern showed in his aged
eyes. "Know that if you do not succeed, there will be no refuge for any
of us. Remember what the elders of Ife once warned, when our young men
called for a campaign of war against the Fulani in the north. They
declared 'The locust can eat, the locust can drink, the locust can go--
but where can the grasshopper hide?' We are like grasshoppers, my son,
with no compounds or women to return to for shelter if we fail."
"We will not fail." Atiba held up his new machete. Its polished iron
glistened in the light of the moon. "Ogun will not turn his face from
us."
"Then I pray for you, Atiba." He sighed. "You are surely like the
pigeon who feeds among the hawks, fearless of death."
"Tonight, Tahajo, we are the hawks."
"A hawk has talons." The old man looked up at the moon. "What do you
have?"
"We will have the claws of a leopard, of steel, before the sun
returns." Atiba saluted him in traditional fashion, then turned to
Obewole. The tall drummer's arms were heavy with bundles of straw,
ready to be fired and hurled among the cane.
"Is everything prepared?"
"The straw is ready." Obewole glanced around at the expectant faces of
the men as he stepped forward. "As we are. You alone have the flint."
Atiba called for quiet. Next he intoned an invocation, a whisper under
his breath, then circled the men and cast a few drops of water from a
calabash toward the four corners of the world. "We will fire this field
first." He stood facing them, proud of the determination in their
faces. These men, he told himself, are among the finest warriors of
Ife. Tonight the _branco _will learn how a Yoruba fights for his
people. "The west wind is freshening now and it will carry the flames
to the other fields, those in the direction of the rising moon. Next we
will fire the curing house, where the _branco _keeps the sweet salt we
have made for him with our own hands. Then we will burn his mill house.
. . ."
Obewole cast a nervous glance at Atiba. "The mill house shelters the
great machine made of the sacred iron of Ogun.