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Read the complete story, "The Blue of Her Hair, The Gold of Her Eyes", here.
| FICTION This Stoker-recommended story appeared originally in Extremes 4: Darkest Africa, and is scheduled to be republished in The Best of Extremes. Eyes of the Leopard
by John B. Rosenman One day, Ekwefi, the proud daughter of the tribal chief, decided she wanted to be especially beautiful for the Feast of the New Yam. She thought and thought, and then she smiled. Perhaps Amadi, the odd boy who drew such strange pictures, could help her. So she told her doting father, and a servant went to summon the boy. Now the name of Amadi’s father is not important, for he was an efulefu, a lazy, worthless man who neglected his crops and preferred to drink palm wine and fashion flutes from bamboo stems. Of all the huts in the Nigerian village, his was the meanest and poorest kept. Indeed, it was considered a disgrace by others even to visit it. So when the servant, a tall man of aristocratic bearing and many airs, announced himself and entered the cramped hut, he looked about in distaste, his nose crinkling at the dust and odors. Amadi’s father and mother, though, were blind to the man’s contempt, for though he was but an arrogant servant, to them he was the greatest person ever to visit them – a representative of the chief himself! At last the servant ceased his haughty scrutiny of their home and addressed Amadi’s father. “You are the father of Amadi, the boy who draws pictures?” The father glanced at his scrawny, careworn wife, who stood trembling, then meekly answered. “Yes,” he said. “Why –” “The chief requires your son to come to his obi at once.” Now any other tribesman would have resented such an imperious order, for while the chief was great, they all had their pride. Such, though, was not the case with Amadi’s father, who saw only the prospect of wonderful things for his son. While he thought Amadi’s pictures were foolish because they served no purpose, apparently they had found some favor with the chief. His hopes rose even higher when the servant spoke again. “It is Ekwefi, the chief’s daughter, who wants to see your son.” Their visitor had barely left before Amadi’s parents embraced excitedly. Was it possible? Had their son, so odd, so strange, found favor with the chief’s daughter? Could their Amadi be destined to be Ekwefi’s husband? Incredible or not, that made sense! After all, while the chief had three wives, he had but one child. Perhaps he was feeling his mortality and sought to establish an heir as quickly as possible. # # #
The parents’ fever spread to their son, who had long adored and worshiped the chief’s daughter. Amadi tried to scoff at their excitement. Ekwefi was beautiful, a radiant star. Did they think that he, who was mocked and disdained by the entire village, was the one whom Ekwefi had chosen, or that he would be the chief’s son-in-law? In response, his father grasped Amadi’s shoulders and fervently repeated a proverb. “‘If a child washed his hands, he could eat with kings.’” Feeling as if he were dreaming, Amadi marched with a pounding heart to the chief’s grand obi. Soon Amadi found himself standing before Ekwefi, who sat gazing regally at a wall. He dimly recalled being received at the door by one of the chief’s wives and led to this private chamber. Though he had not seen the chief, Amadi was heartened by the presence of an old woman in a corner. Perhaps it was a sign that the chief wished his daughter and future son-in-law to be properly chaperoned. Then Ekwefi turned her head with its dark, lustrous hair arranged in a high, elaborate coiffure -- and deigned to notice him. She was even lovelier and more exquisite than he had thought. Though like him, she was fifteen years of age, she seemed far too sublime for this world. Surely, that nut-brown, flawless body belonged to a goddess. Surely, those slender hands and supple fingers were too fine ever to cook or wash clothes. And those long shapely legs and soft, budding breasts served only to feed his awe, making it hard for him to breathe. Above all else, it was her face that sealed his fate. Large brown limpid eyes -- soft, molded lips shaped like a hunter’s bow -- satin skin and gracefully curved cheeks. Before, he had always seen these from a distance. Now they were so close, he had but to reach out and touch them! Such beauty – was it possible that this girl desired him? Ekwefi smiled. “Amadi,” she said in a honey-sweet voice, “I want you to do something for me.” He couldn’t even answer. “The Feast of the New Yam starts tomorrow,” Ekwefi said, “and this year I wish to honor the earth goddess for her bountiful harvest.” She rose, turning her lovely body to display it. “I’ve seen some of the pictures you draw. They are beautiful.” “You really think so?” Stunned, he soon felt a great rush of pleasure. Ekwefi was the first one to say she liked his drawings! To his people, only art which served a purpose, such as a necklace or a religious mask, had value. Before he could gush his gratitude, she crept forward and touched his arm. “Amadi, do you think you could draw pictures on me?” “On you?” “Yes, as our women do to honor the goddess.” “But those are just s-shapes and patterns. I do . . .” “Pictures. Yes, I know.” She ran a finger up his arm, making it tingle. “You can draw anything you like,” she purred. “Will you do this for me, Amadi?” “But w-why?” He struggled for words. Why should someone so beautiful seek further adornment? Did the lion need wings, or the leopard a lovely voice? Why beautify something that was already perfect? Then realization came. Ekwefi cared nothing about him. All she cared about was his ability to feed her vanity! She, who was already peerless, was not satisfied with the mere adoration of suitors and the jealousy of village girls. No, she wanted him to decorate her further so her greatest rivals would not even be noticed. Ekwefi moved close. Her soft lips were just inches away, and her fragrance made him dizzy. “Will you do this for me, Amadi?” she repeated softly. “If you do, I’ll be ever so grateful.” Her fingers brushed his thigh. In the corner, the old woman clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Of course,” Amadi said. “I’ll do whatever you want.” # # #
Afterward, he lied to his parents, for he could not bear to hurt them, or see the hope die in their eyes, as it had in his heart when he had learned the truth. Yes, he told them, Ekwefi did seem to like him, and she’d asked him to return as soon as possible. But they must remember she had many suitors, and that she was the chief’s daughter. He urged them over and over to be patient, and not to hope for too much. Finally, he sought refuge from their attention by going for a walk. And beneath the sun, a bright hope rose again within him. Though Ekwefi wanted only to use him, he would win her love. Yes! On her delicate skin, he would use all his skill and inspiration to create images so vital, so beautiful and real, that she could not help but love him. Despite her wishes, he would conquer her with the sweet fire that lived in his fingers. But he knew that to win her, he must create as never before, that he must use something far better than the cam wood and dye that women routinely used to adorn their bodies. He must find something as fine as she. And so Amadi searched amid birds’ eggs and beeswax, minerals and mud and his own blood for the colors of his vision. When he had found them, he moved to his next task. After several tries, he succeeded in fashioning suitable brushes from sap, plant fiber, and the most delicate of wood. Then he was ready. # # #
Amadi knelt before Ekwefi’s delectable body, a brush held in his hand. But this close to her living, breathing flesh, he forgot all his intentions. His dilemma was not helped by her knowing smile, nor by the day’s heat and the room’s tiny window. Sitting, Ekwefi continued to perspire, moisture shining on her skin like morning dew. He wanted to lean forward and lick it off. Prudently, he picked up a cloth and gently blotted her skin before reviewing his colors. Which should he use first, and for what? A blur of movement. Turning to the door, he gasped, seeing the chief’s great, impressive bulk. Uzowulu was so fat he had three or four chins, and he always wrapped his girth in gaudy cloth as if to call attention to it. “Serve my daughter well,” he ordered. “Make her even more beautiful than she is.” “That would be impossible, my chief!” Uzowulu wrinkled his great brows and left. Before he did, though, Amadi saw all the way down to the man’s soul. Why, this was no great lord of the clan. Uzowulu was a tower of bluster and lard with no understanding of anything beautiful. Emboldened, he turned back to the girl, meeting her assured smile with one of his own. As he did, he remembered exactly what he wanted to paint. Ekwefi wished him to honor the earth goddess? Very well, he would glorify the earth on her skin. Everything that grew in nature, would grow there also. The brush no longer felt alien but part of his flesh. Confidently, he dipped it in green pigment. He began by painting plants and clusters of leaves on Ekwefi’s stomach, tracing vibrant tendrils that wrapped around and across her soft, delicate breasts. Occasionally his fingers trembled with the need to caress her and to be caressed in return, to press her lovely body close to his. She herself often giggled, either at the brush’s touch, or because she sensed his desire. Sometimes, as if to tease him, she even squirmed so he had to wait until she was still. In honor of the New Yam Festival, he called plump yams into being, surrounding their thick tubers with lush green leaves. When he was finished with her belly, he adorned her slender arms and legs with nature’s bounty. A tall, leaf-eating giraffe reared its neck along one arm; a drinking horn overflowing with rich palm wine wrapped around the other. On one of her exquisite legs he created the long mighty Niger, thick with crocodiles. On the other, he painted all the bright, glorious flowers of the forest. Amadi moved to Ekwefi’s back, the fragrance of her flesh filling his senses. She smelled like the earth – rich, fertile, vast and wet. Hearing her breath quicken, he felt his excitement rise and willed it down. Using different brushes, he created swampland and jungle and tree-studded savannah, gorillas, elephants, and lions. A slender, supple boomslang snake trailed its venomous length over her shoulder. There was so much he wanted to draw, but so little space! By now he had covered Ekwefi’s entire back, and little remained. Tribal custom would not permit him to trespass upon the delicate planes of her face. He returned to her front as she squealed and excitedly looked at her body. “Oh, this is wonderful, Amadi! Plants and yams and a big snake! Are you finished? I can’t wait to go to the lake to see my back!” Amadi circled her, waving his brush. For a moment, in his excitement, a gorilla on her back seemed to move. “There is still one spot I must cover, Ekwefi.” Reverently, he touched the area above her breasts. She looked down at her chest, then gave him a mischievous smile. “What will you put here?” “The best of it all, Ekwefi. A symbol of you.” She bit her forefinger with white, sharp teeth. “Oh, what is it? Tell me!” “No, I’ll show you. But first -- do you like my work?” “Oh, yessss!” She leapt up and hugged him for one heavenly moment. Then like a cat, she returned to her chair. “Do it quick, Amadi. I want to see what it is!” Trembling in delight, he selected another brush and returned to his colors. Then he started to create what was for him the most beautiful and deadly animal of them all: the leopard. Tawny and black-spotted, its sleek, powerful form promised death to anything that came too near. Finally, tired, but glowing with fulfillment, Amadi set his brush down. “It’s done,” he said simply. Ekwefi jumped up immediately. She eyed his addition, then glanced at him with bright, glassy eyes. In them, Amadi saw no love at all, and no appreciation of his art. To her leopard soul, he was simply prey of another kind, and had already served his purpose. “I must show my friends!” Feeling empty, he followed her outside, where the young people of the village, especially young men, gathered about her with admiring eyes. She moved sinuously among them, laughing at the girls’ envy. # # #
The first villager died in the early evening, torn limb from limb by a giant gorilla which an hysterical child said had entered the forest. Since gorillas seldom even approached the village and were harmless unless provoked, the child was widely doubted. But there was no denying the mangled corpse that lay in the dirt, or its fear-filled face. Soon afterward, a bull elephant appeared from nowhere and stormed through the village, demolishing one hut and trampling two women. As the mad beast thundered toward the jungle, it raised its trunk and trumpeted. For Amadi the worst death came next. His father was bitten by a boomslang, which ordinarily lay hidden in foliage and preyed on birds and small lizards. Returning with his mother to their hut, Amadi found his father lying dead outside. As his mother wailed, Amadi spotted something slipping through the grass. He dashed into his hut, seized a machete, and returned. As he drew close to the snake, he froze. Though it was much bigger, it had the exact same markings and pattern of scales as the one he had drawn on Ekwefi’s shoulder! Trembling, he raised the machete and hacked the snake into a dozen pieces. By now, new deaths were being reported, and everyone was shouting of murder and evil spirits. Bearing spears, machetes, bows, and torches, the men stalked through the brush and entered the forest. The chief, his multiple chins jiggling, ran frantically about, sobbing that his only child, Ekwefi, had vanished. Comforting his mother, Amadi left her with an aunt and marched off, gripping his machete tightly. As he went, a strange suspicion rose. A gorilla he’d painted on Ekwefi’s back had seemed to move. Now, a snake with the same markings as the one on her shoulder had killed his father. Was it possible that his skill and intense labor had brought his drawings to life, and in the same order in which he’d created them? He told himself the thought was foolish, but remembered how hard he had tried to make his creations real. Had he succeeded? Was he responsible for his father’s death and all the others? Was he to blame for turning the joyous rhythm of tomorrow’s drums into a mournful beat? He tried to convince himself that grief had addled his senses. The boomslang, after all, had been more than twice the length of the one he had drawn on Ekwefi’s shoulder. As for the gorilla and elephant, he had made them so small! Yet every sound of grief he heard seemed to accuse him. By instinct, he followed a different course than other searchers. The chief had said Ekwefi had vanished, but perhaps she had fled from the horrors she had innocently unleashed. As he approached the jungle, the moon appeared, bathing the trees in silver. He stopped, aware there were no insect sounds. The night was perfectly silent. Entering the trees, he slid the machete into its sheath and followed a path till he reached a small clearing. At the same time, someone entered it from the other side. Ekwefi! She cried out and ran into his arms. “Oh, Amadi, something terrible happened! Just after dinner, I felt so strange, and my skin started to itch and crawl. I went outside for fresh air, but I only felt worse. Then the pictures you drew started to leap off. The animals – I swear they came alive! And then they grew. They grew so big –” Ekwefi broke into tears and pressed her moist face against his. She kissed his cheek and threw her arms around his neck. Amadi gently broke her grip and pushed her back. In the moonlight, he examined her body. All his drawings were gone – except one. On her chest, the leopard’s yellow eyes bore into his. “We have to go back,” Amadi said. “Back?” “To the village.” She crept backward into the clearing. “The village? I can’t go there.” “Why not?” He watched her prowl back and forth. Her sleek body glistened. “Because I don’t belong there,” she hissed. As he stared, her ears seemed to draw back against her head. “Come with me, Amadi. I know you want me. You always have.” Despite his guilt and grief, Amadi burned with desire. “Yes, it’s true,” he said. “I have always loved you, Ekwefi.” She flashed her teeth. “Then come with me. One small bite, and we will be as one.” Amadi’s heart faltered, and then he understood. Ekwefi was a wild thing now, her true nature freed by the savage bloodshed caused by his pictures. She had shared the carnage and, tasting death, had become the predator. Even now, the girl who had embraced him only moments before, was almost entirely gone. He shook his head. “I can’t go with you,” he said sadly. Suddenly, the leopard on her chest began to writhe. Its muscles rippled and flowed, and he saw it turn toward him and crouch. Ekwefi’s eyes turned yellow, and she laughed shrilly, taunting him. “You shall never leave here, Amadi. Never!” Before his eyes, the leopard grew larger and larger, its muscles and sinews swelling. In seconds, the girl’s entire body was absorbed into the leopard, which crouched on the ground. Amadi retreated; the leopard stalked him, yellow eyes burning into his. Amadi drew his machete. “I should never have loved you,” he said. “You aren’t worth it.” A fierce growl rose from the beast’s throat. Then it sprang. Slipping sideways, Amadi swung the machete as hard as he could, sinking its blade deep into the predator’s neck. The leopard howled and whipped around, baring its fangs. “I wanted to praise your beauty,” Amadi said. “I wanted to make something my people would love.” Drenched with its own blood, the leopard leapt again. This time, though Amadi was swift, the leopard raked him viciously with its claws. He stumbled back, struggling not to fall. The leopard pounced to finish him off. Planting his feet, Amadi desperately swung the blade at the beast’s neck. He felt it sink in; then the animal’s terrible force drove him down. His head struck the ground, and the world went dark. When he awoke, it was the middle of the night, and a crushing weight lay on top of him. He opened his eyes and gazed up into those of the leopard. Their yellow glow seemed pale and weak. Slowly, the beast opened its huge jaws. Its hot, heavy breath washed over his face. Now it will eat me, Amadi thought. Instead, the leopard extended its tongue and licked his cheek. After a moment it shuddered, lowered its head, and lay still. Later, after Amadi managed to pull his bleeding body from beneath the dead animal, he held its great head in his lap and stroked it. He kept praying it would come back to life and return Ekwefi to him. But it never did. End
From my first novel, The Best Laugh Last (Treacle Press, 1981; reprinted, 1982). I jump back and trip over a pool ball. Then everything's
slow motion
From "A Spark From God's Finger," included in my collection of short stories, More Stately Mansions: The Selected Works of John B. Rosenman (Dark Regions Press, 1999). Pulling his shoulders back, he braced himself and returned
to the face of God. Slowly, whispering a prayer, he touched the brush
to the paint and raised it. Then, in a few deft, supremely controlled
strokes, he filled in the rest of the white beard he had started earlier.
Moaning in gratitude, he moved on, watching his hand shape miracles, his
nostrils swelling with the pungent smell of paint. Stroke by stroke
the knowledge of who he was grew, merging with a surging sense of purpose.
Yes, it was true! And though his painting on plaster was not like carving
white marble, the pietra serena blocks that made his blood burn, it would
do. Who knew? Perhaps From "The Mouth," in Frightener's; Sept., 1991, and Phantasm, Spring/Summer 1997. They called him The Mouth, and they hated him. Hated the way he shambled into Sue & Arnie's every day around
five and gobbled his fried chicken and chicken fried steak, his onion hamburgers
and x-tra large fries. Then, after watching him drain his fifth or
sixth mug of cold beer and rub his greasy, sausage-fat fingers on his belly,
they felt their hate ripen into something more. A writhing, gut-wrenching
disgust. A revulsion so intensely visceral it might be what a scorpion
felt when it mated. From "Even Saints and Angels," in Whitley Strieber's Aliens (Pocket Books, 1999). Hubbard had won $13,000 before he started down the steep, swift
slope of losing. When the roulette table became unkind to him, he left
it for a crap table, and when that, after three bets, made its hostility
sufficiently clear, he moved on to one of the numerous blackjack tables
that filled the stupendous Las Vegas casino. Which one it was, he didn't
know and didn't care. Besides, it made no difference. Whether
it was the Excalibur with its From "Childhood's Day," in Brutarian, issue 24, 1998. "One thing I've been meaning to ask. How will it—I mean, he—feel?"
He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be "born" at the age of seven
and couldn't. "Won't it be traumatic? I mean . . ." From "Small Craft Advisory," in The Tome; Summer, 1992. "Don't you remember how it was, Ben? When we held each
other close and made love all night?" From "Three Pounds of Garlic in a Dead Man's Hand," Outside: Speculative and Dark Fiction; Aug., 1998: "Well, don't worry 'bout it, Mister," the man laughed.
"We was all skittish when things started to go haywire. After a bit,
though, we settled right down and found things was a lot better than they
was before. And ----------------- POETRY From Yankee, July 1984. FIRST PRIZE: PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST (complete poem) He kneels in mud From "The Girl More Naked Than Naked," Forum, University of Houston Central Campus; Summer-Fall, 1978. The girl more naked than naked From "Out There," Pandora, no. 25, 1990. Out there "3 Cosmic Signs," in The Leading Edge, Fall/Winter, 1990. 3 Cosmic Signs (complete poem) THIS UNIVERSE THIS UNIVERSE FRAGILE TURN OUT THE STARLIGHTS -------------------- ESSAYS From "The L-Shaped Room in 'The Secret Sharer'," in The Claflin College Review; December, 1976. . . . In this article I hope to correct this imbalance by examining
how Conrad uses the cabin as the thematic and symbolic focus of "The Secret
Sharer," one that surpasses even the sea and the dark coast land as a functional
image of the human mind. From "The Heaven and Hell Archetype in Faulkner's 'That Evening Sun' and Bradbury's Dandelion Wine," in South Atlantic Bulletin; May, 1978. Faulkner's and Bradbury's hells have mythological, metaphysical,
and psychological implications. Most obvious, perhaps, is that they
resemble the caverns, abysses, pits, and underworlds found in Homer, Virgil,
Dante, Milton, Poe and others and suggest much about how man views creation
and his own lost innocence. The fact, for example, that each divides
a town in two implies a dualistic vision of the universe in which the forces
of darkness forever wage war against the forces of good. In Christian
terms this view is postlapsarian, but from the broader standpoint reflected
in everything from Greek myths to fairy tales, it is archetypal. From "The Year in Censorship: The Top 10 American Stories of 1990," in Gauntlet, 1991. Censorship was alive and well in 1990, at work in both obvious
and subtle ways. As Robert Scheer observed in the Oct. Playboy, "America's
home-grown censors seem more virulent than ever." From "Pregnant Boys and Knocked-Up Studs: The Gender-Bender Phenomenon in Contemporary Culture," in Cultural Studies and the Standards of Learning. Norfolk State University, 1999. What I propose to do in this paper is explore some current gender-bender icons, trends, and developments in our multicultural society in order to suggest some ways in which they can be used to teach teenagers. In particular, I will try to show that not only does the gender-bender phenomenon cut across and saturate what have traditionally been labeled "low," "high," and "popular" cultures, but that it can be used to enrich the education of our young and help them to master more fully the content and skills specified in the Virginia Standards of Learning. -------------------- REVIEWS From my column, "Horror Poetry," in HORROR: THE NEWS MAGAZINE OF THE HORROR & DARK FANTASY FIELD; Jan., 1994. It's not hard to see why What Rough Book won the N.A.I.
P. Fallot From my review of Northern Frights 4, in Tangent; Summer, 1997. In his introduction, editor Don Hutchison says of his World
Fantasy Award series, "Foolish or not, we buy stories, not names." Given
the number of closed anthologies these days, this alone is cause for celebration.
------------------------ INTERVIEWS From my interview of Mike Resnick, in Dark Regions, 1995. DR: You don't like scientific or technical explanation or extrapolation in fiction. Why? And have you read any good hard sf novels? Resnick: I think to the extent that science and technology intrude upon the human values of a story, to that extent the story may succeed as science fiction, but it fails as fiction. I believe a writer's two primary jobs are to entertain, and to elicit an emotional response from the reader. Maybe it's just the way I'm made, but the only response technological extrapolation elicits from me is a yawn, and a desire to get back to the characters. I have read some brilliant hard science concepts: Clarke's
Diaspar, Niven's Ringworld, Clement's Mesklin. I am not sure whether
or not I've read any brilliant hard science fiction. From my interview of Brian Hodge, in Dark Regions, 1997. 1. DR: Brian, I like to start off each interview with a profound and meaty question. In that spirit, could you tell our readers if you still keep that Ghostbusters Ectoplasm and a six-foot inflatable snake in your apartment? Hodge: Wow, you really read your Descartes and Foucalt to prepare
for that one, didn't you? No, those items have been retired for years.
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