Hunting Medicine

As he pushed his way through the foggy thickness of the deep jungle that surrounded him, he could hear the faint beating of drums in the distance.

The further in that he walked, the more the day seemed to turn into night due to the increasing density of the ancient trees blocking out the sun. The mist that surrounded him gave a dreamlike atmosphere shrouding an already uncertain path as he trekked, guided not so much by a sense of direction, but rather intuition.

Through the mist and foliage he could see luminous eyes all around him glowing in various colors. Behind the eyes were the shadows of creatures and figures which he couldn’t make out, all observing him closely.

The drumming was getting louder by each step and now he could hear chanting and singing. He could feel the earth beneath him grab hold of his feet and engulf his entire body to the point where he felt as if he himself was no longer in control of his own movement and that the forest had now taken over his body and was forcing him to continue down this unknown path of mystery and terror. The singing and chanting grew louder and the drumming more intense. The closer he got to the noise, the more he could feel the pounding of drums reverberating throughout his entire body, each drum beat pulsating within his heart and vibrating throughout his internal organs. He felt the vibrations rewiring his entire nervous system.

He had become totally taken into a trance-like state where his thoughts and actions were no longer his own as he approached closer to the source of the music. In front of him he could see a wild, burning fire and many dark faces covered head-to-toe in white paint staring intensely at him while dancing and chanting at the same time.

By now the drums no longer sounded like drums, more like earthquakes and thunder strikes. He could feel his spirit leaving his body and was no longer aware of whether or not he was standing, lying down or floating in mid-air. Suddenly, he looked ahead and saw a brightly lit pyramid towering in front of him with a burning skull at the top, the intensity of fiery light almost blinded him. As he looked into the hypnotic gaze of the skull that was calling him closer, he noticed the left eye socket slowly opening to reveal even more intense god-like sunlight. His eyes quickly opened wide while his jaw became unhinged and let out a soul expiring exhalation as his life force rapidly left his body.

…*Gaaaasp!*

Back Home:

*phone alarm music playing*

Suddenly, he woke up out of breath back in his bedroom. It was the third time in a month that he’d had this dream, always ending in the same manner. By now he was getting used to it but not enough to leave him unshaken. His body was covered in sweat and he was breathing rapidly. The screen on the Android read 4:30 am. He had set it so that he could have a reasonable amount of time to shower, eat and prepare his notes for a lecture that he was giving later on.

His name is Arturo Cordoba, more informally referred to as Doctor Art or simply "Art." Art is a cultural anthropologist specializing in aesthetics, particularly African artifacts. He was giving a speech on Kongo nail fetishes called Nkondi; statues carved out of wood and embedded with nails that were common throughout Central Africa up until the late nineteenth century.

The statues were believed to be imbued with supernatural forces and would act as conduits between the living and the dead. While on a recent trip to Kinshasa he had acquired a particular specimen estimated to be a little over two hundred years old that would serve as the main exhibit of his lecture.

Is it a coincidence that I started having these dreams after coming back from Africa? he thought.

Maybe it's just my anxiety about the upcoming presentation manifesting through my dreams.

This was hardly something new. Even as a kid Art had always struggled with public speaking. Just the thought of getting up and expressing himself in front of any number of scrutinizing eyes was enough to make him sweat. He was anxiety-ridden in his youth and arguably even more so as an adult.

That being said, having nightmares before a speech for him wasn’t out of the ordinary. However, this time was different. It wasn’t like any dream he’d previously had. It felt real, and it also didn't feel like it was over. He didn’t just feel as if he had woken up from a nightmare and was now safe and sound in reality, but rather as though he was still in continuation of the dream. Even now he could still feel the grip of the forest and the heat of the fire…and the light…god…that light! It was still fadingly within his vision, like the filter on a lens complementing everything in his environment. It gave him an uneasy feeling.

God I hope this doesn’t affect my presentation, he thought. The last thing I need is petrifying terror to be added onto my already overly-anxious disposition.

After giving himself a couple of light slaps on both sides of of his face he managed to pull himself together and make his way to the bathroom. Quickly, he started to get into the zone of early morning preparation.

“Okay Art, nothing to worry about,” he said, trying to reassure himself by channeling his inner crime scene handler:

"Nothing to see here folks, keep it moving, show’s over…nothing unusual here…just the normal, boring routine of ass-washing, teeth brushing and clean shave."

After he was finished with the preliminaries he was then able to prepare and review his notes over coffee and eggs. The effect of the dream was finally wearing off and by now had all but disappeared.

He let out an analgesic *sigh*

“okay let’s do this,” he said.

As he was going over his notes, he peered over at the statue standing upright across the room on his work table gallantly poised with spear in hand. It was a hearty specimen standing roughly seven or eight inches tall made of now brittled wood and sporting a crown of decayed feathers, the body stained with old blood from animal sacrifices that had been made to it over the years, and unsparingly riddled with nails hammered into its torso.

Traditionally the nails were meant to function as a solidifier of intention in regards to what the fetish, or rather the spirit within the fetish was being petitioned for. At times it would serve as an arbiter between two parties in a dispute whom when an agreement was made, would hammer in a nail to “seal the deal” so to speak. If the deal wasn’t honored then the spirit would enact justice on the perpetrator(s).

The fact that it still had its original spear was pleasing to Art. Over time most of these statues tend to lose some of their accessories, particularly their spears. Nothing was worse than an empty-handed warrior and due to time and lack of care many surviving nkondi were indeed empty handed, but not this one. No, he was well equipped and ready for action. Art thought back on the conversation he had with Dr. Kangelu at the Musée National de la Culture du Congo in Kinshasa where he had received the fetish. He and the Doctor had been long-time friends and colleagues since they had met while attending university together years ago in San Francisco as undergraduates. Ever since then they have maintained a very close correspondence and deep respect for one another.

In Kinshasa:

“That’s a big piece!” Said Dr. Kangelu admiring the statue as it stood on the ground atop of folded out newspaper.

“I know,” said Art, “I’m gonna have a hell of a time trying to fit it in my luggage, I may need a special carry on case for it.”

“Oh yeah no worries, we will definitely have that arranged,” said Kangelu.

The Musée National, although grand in name, visually looked to be no more than a glorified antique store. It was a modest one-story building with one large main showroom and two smaller backrooms. The atmosphere of the place was smokey, humid and cramped. The walls were covered in shelves stocked to the brim with masks, statues, cloths, drums and other paraphernalia. However, despite the outward appearance of the store, in actuality it was a place where one could find some of the rarest and most authentic historical items in Congo.

Museum curators, academic scholars as well as private collectors were well aware of the shops’ reputation and certainly did their best to patronize it. The store owners happened to be very well connected politically and were entrenched in the cultural lore throughout the land.

That being said, not just anyone could do business with them, you had to know someone. Fortunately for Art, Dr. Kangelu was that someone.

Benga, the curator came staggering out of the backroom through the portière holding a bottle of Seagrams.

He was a short, modest looking man in his late sixties sporting tan khakis and a faded green and yellow Tommy Bahama shirt. He made his way to the fetish and opened the bottle of Seagrams, then through his mouth sprayed some over his left and right shoulders before taking a sip himself. he then muttered some words in Lingala.

Kangelu responded to the curious look developing on Art’s face while this was happening and whispered,

“Ancestor veneration..."

Benga then recited another incantation and poured a couple of hardy libations onto the fetish. He then handed it over to Art, looking unblinkingly into his eyes, then he began speaking to him in Lingala.

Kangelu translated, “He says that your ancestors have given their blessing and will accept the Nkisi. You should keep him in a special place and offer him food and liquor every now and then.”

"Fair enough," said Art.

It seemed as though he was bringing a new friend with him or in this case more like a roommate.

Kangelu continued, “He says that over the years you have attracted shadows and that these shadows have made you afraid. They have paralyzed you and have kept you from being happy. They make you afraid to be yourself in front of others.”

Art could remember how taken back he was emotionally, not only because of what the man was saying but the sincere conviction in his eyes and the feeling that it gave him. It was a feeling of deep benevolent wisdom and insight, like having a conversation with one’s grandfather.

Kangelu continued to translate, “He says that your kiini (personal shadow) has been overrun by nkuyu (unruly shadows). They seem to be attracted to you, and you have been collecting them since you were a child.”

How ironically circular, thought Art. A shadow being overshadowed by other shadows.

He then said, “They go to you the way insects swarm a light bulb, and they have been blocking your shine for quite some time."

Then, pointing towards the nail fetish, he said, "Nkisi will hunt down these shadows with the help and guidance of your ancestors.”

At that moment Art began to take the man’s words with the utmost humility and respect because he realized who Benga was. He could tell just by the language he was using; terms like "kiini," "nkisi" (medicine), "nkuyu" (errant/in-tranquil spirit) were all recognizable to him given his field of research. Benga was an nganga, or what western academics may have once reffered to as a "witch doctor" or shaman.

For centuries these men (and women) have been the repositories of ancient wisdom and techniques. They were the keepers of cultural knowledge and philosophy, they also tended to be highly competent herbalists who knew the various medicinal cures for ailments, and they were also masters of the spirit realm who claimed direct communication with the supernatural.

Art had been aware of them all throughout his career but never anticipated meeting one, yet here he was receiving an Nkisi Nkondi from one. All of this would later on be confirmed of course through conversation with Dr. Kangelu but even then Dr. Art knew instinctively that this man wasn’t just an ordinary antique dealer. He had raw spirit flowing through him and Art could feel it.

Kangelu then continued translating, “It is no coincidence that you are here today seeking this nkondi, for you did not seek it alone. It heard the call of your ancestors, so it responded. Always remember to be careful when hearing voices."

Voices? He thought. What does he mean by voices? What exactly am I getting myself into?

There was ambivalence in Arts' demeanor but he thought it was too late now to turn back.

He continued, "those who speak fear are not the voices of your ancestors, they are simply the nkuyu trying to mislead you. Allow them to speak so that they can identify themselves to Nkondi and he will resolve the issue. All is the will of Nzambi (God). Have no fear, walk in your light and shadow...”

Back Home:

Art relished on those words as he sat at the breakfast table and watched his nkisi. The term "Nkisi Nkondi" is actually the proper name referring to the nail fetish; nkisi meaning "medicine" and nkondi meaning "hunter." Over the past month he had come up with a name to call him, Cazasombra which was Spanish for “Shadowhunter,” a fitting title he felt, given the nature of the recipient.

His eyes drifted away from Cazasombra and fell upon the hammer and nails that he had bought the following week from his return laying on the kitchen countertop. His reason for buying them? A voice had told him to do so with no clarification other than, "when you are ready you will know what to do."

Indeed, strange things were occurring ever since his return from the motherland. Between the dreams, the voices and some very uncanny synchronistic experiences he was beginning to question his own sanity.

“Am I just psyching myself out?” he thought out loud to himself. “Is my mind merely playing tricks on me or is any of this real?”

At that moment a voice spoke and said...

...A little bit of both actually!

Suddenly he felt a rush of energy overcome him and then the light from earlier which he thought had faded away came back and blinded him!

He quickly shut his eyes and then the voice proceeded to laugh hysterically.

HAHAHAHA!

Nothing can describe the cold terror and shock that he felt throughout his body at that moment, for unlike the previous instances, the voice had not been internal. This time it was outwardly audible, as loud and clear as if someone were present in the room!

Then the laughter began to multiply and there was a harangue of eerie hysterical laughter coming from all directions all at once, different tones and voices combobulating to form an eclectic ball of chaos and confusion set to explode at any moment in Art’s mind as he cupped both sides of his head in agony!

HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!!!! HAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHA!!!!!!

Then abruptly… they stopped.

Art unclasped his head slowly just to be sure it was safe, that is if “safe” was even still in the cards at this point. If anything else it was quiet now.

He slowly opened his eyes expecting to see some red eyed apparition with sharp teeth, drenched in blood, ready to tear him to shreds.

...What he saw instead was much more terrifying.

No monsters or demons...he was all alone, only he was no longer in his kitchen or even his house for that matter.

He was back in the damn jungle.

Art couldn’t believe his eyes. He searched frantically for his front door, a window, anything that could provide an exit but alas, he could see nothing except trees and bush.

In the distance he could hear river streams and animals clamoring. The sun gave the sky a reddish orange color as it does around late mid-day before it begins to disappear. It would soon be nightfall and he needed to find some shelter at least until sunrise, then maybe hopefully he could figure out how to leave.

At that moment the jungle took hold of him as it had done before and dragged him deeper into the bush. He was then brought to a river crossing. On his left he noticed something moving in the grass along the edge of a stream. It was a large multicolored python with a subtle glow to it. He followed it into a nearby cavern that was too dark to get a glimpse of the inside.

His gaze was fixed on the cavern entrance which was pitch-black like an opening into the abyss.

Then two menacing, glowing, red, laser-like eyes emerged from within the darkness followed by a voice;

I am Nkadiempemba…and I am here to reveal the truth to you…

There was nothing human about this voice at all, “otherworldly” was the best way Art could describe it.

“The truth about what?” Asked Art.

The truth about yourself, said the voice,

the truth that you cannot see, that you refuse to see…I am here to set you free..to give you the release that you’ve always desired...and that you were destined to have…

Art could sense the most intense malevolent energy that he had ever encountered in his life coming from this voice, it was too sublime to be referred to as “evil.” No…whatever this was pre-dated evil…it was primal. In the tone of every word it spoke Art could feel the essence of every bloodthirsty psychopath to ever walk the earth. Every murderer, rapist, genocidal dictator, military conqueror and so on. Primal malice ad infinitum,“Terrified” wasn’t even the word to describe how he felt, he tried to move but was catatonic.

Suddenly, a spark of light zipped out of the cave and into a nearby tree where it then produced a multitude of sparks and the sparks faded out and became shadowy figures. The initial shadow figure then spoke,

“I’ve watched you grow since you came from the womb.”

“Who are you?” Asked Art.

Then in unison all of the figures said...

Nkuyu!!!

And the laughter started again...

HAAAAAHAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAA!!!!!

One by one the shadows swooped down and began spouting into his ear at the same time; some were shouting, others whispered, and some just talking.

He heard voices bringing up every dishonorable, selfish, egregious action in his life that he had committed and how miserable and wretched his present life was and consequently how his future would be doomed to continue in the same pathetic vein. These voices were digging up every skeleton in Art’s closet, every instance of deception and mischief that he had been responsible for throughout his life as well as every defect in his character, any sin he that he may have committed against himself and others, you name it they knew it, Indeed they knew it all.

He could hear the voices telling him horrible things, unimaginable things that he would dare not repeat. Art’s head was spinning, he couldn’t take it anymore, then the first voice spoke again.

When you are ready you will know what to do.

Art looked over to his right and saw laying on a tree stump, the hammer and nails that he had bought. Then he turned to his right and saw an old T.V. set with a VCR on top of it, and on the screen a grainy video began playing. It showed him taking the hammer and pounding the nails into his own head one by one forming a bloody crown, and then staring into the camera face to face with a blank stare and a deeply disturbing grin.

"Do it!" Said the voice.

Tears were streaming down his face, he was losing it.

Then the video skipped to another scene showing Art bashing his own skull in with the hammer. Blood and bones were flying everywhere as he fell into a bloody pool of brain matter and skull fragments. A few seconds had passed, and then in the most unsettling way his corpse managed to raise a thumbs up and his bloody head turned towards the camera and gave a chilling smile.

Art was entranced at this point, his will utterly destroyed.

"FINISH THE JOB…IT’S YOUR DESTINY…DO IT NOW!"

As Art slowly reached for the hammer he suddenly heard another voice say,

“got him.”

Art’s eyes widened, it was the voice of Tito, his long-deceased grandfather.

Art turned to look at his grandfather but instead saw a tall muscular figure with glowing green eyes coated in leopard hide and holding a spear. The figure stared for a moment and then stepped to Art and handed him the spear.

Suddenly, a surge of courage shot through him. He could feel every ancestor in his bloodline pulsating in his veins giving him a strength which he had never felt before. He turned around to look his enemy in his eyes. The shadows were no longer separated but had now culminated into one dark figure with the same red laser eyes as the cave.

Overcome with a new found valor, he stared intently into his adversary’s eyes only now he wasn’t paralyzed with fear, but instead building up a momentum of rage made up of all the lies and deceit which had kept him a slave to this shade who’s eyes he was now glaring into. Now, with the resolution of dying if it meant getting even with his foe, Art let out an explosive bone curdling howl as he charged toward his nemesis with tears running from his bloodshot eyes and a hysterical, unhinged grin.

As he closed in, the figure gave its final words with a contented, “...nicely done...” and revealed it’s true form just before he plunged the spear into its chest…

*phone alarm music playing*

Art’s eyes opened wide and he let out a long gasp, the time on his phone read 4:30 am. He looked around and realized that the jungle had disappeared.

“It was a dream?”

Evidently so because he was back in his bedroom. He walked around the house to make sure the coast was clear.

“No trace of jungle,” he said with relief.

He proceeded to do his usual morning preparations again only this time he noticed that his anxiety was non-existent. He felt a sensation of intense joy, like a stone had just been lifted from his chest or like a convict finally stepping out on the other side of prison walls. Art finally knew peace after living so long without it and an uncontrollable smile decorated his face. He wanted to cry…but he didn’t.

Instead he looked over at Cazasombra.

Prior to leaving, he reached into his liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker. Before taking a sip he sprayed some over his right and left shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said before he poured a generous libation onto the fetish.

He then grabbed the hammer from the counter-top and pulled one nail out of it's bag. He paused for a moment before kissing the nail and proceeded to pound it squarely into the chest of the nkondi.

Then he walked out the door.