The Storm Spirits

The Storm Spirits

by Bill Corfield

The Canadian Storyteller

Copyright 2013 Bill Corfield

Published on Smashwords

Formatted by eBooksMade4You

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Postscript

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CHAPTER 1

GHANA, WEST AFRICA, THURSDAY, AUGUST 26, 2010

Kokonte lay on his vine hammock in the shade of his native hut and stared down the Kakum trail. His circular hut had walls of sticks and poles, strengthened with mud bricks and rammed earth, as the Ashanti built long ago. The shady veranda had a drooping roof of palm leaves and woven grasses. A wall, higher than a leopard can leap, of thickets and low growth brambles, protected the circular compound to keep out the night stalkers. Kokonte was naked except for a loincloth because the suAn was very hot and there were no visitors coming own the Kakum trail. His ribs looked as if they would poke through his skin. His belly was flat and wrinkled. His legs and arms were spindly. His face was creased by a thousand winds. But his eyes were clear and his wisdom shone through. Kokonte was the oldest of the wise men of the Aka tribe that had bred leaders of the Ashanti for centuries. Because of his wisdom, Kokonte was The Great Storyteller of his village. The white-faced people came from far away, along the Kakum trail, to hear his tales and give him money.

He was a cunning story teller. Sometimes he would tell them how bad men came in ships to ancient Africa, which was now called Ghana and means Warrior King, and took away the Ashanti to work as slaves in fields far away and they never came back. The tribal warriors fought to save their families and their villages but the guns of the traders were too deadly. These were terrible times, the wise men told him when he was a boy, and he believed He couldn’t understand why these white people came from away to see where his ancestors were killed or captured and sold like goats and cattle.

When children came along the trail, Kokonte would tell them the tale of the magic drum. Long, long ago, he would chant in his trembling voice, there was a King who had a magic drum. When he played on his drum with two carved sticks, food and water would appear. All his people ate and drank and were happy. An army came over the mountains from the next valley and took the King’s magic drum, but when they picked up the sticks to beat the drum and make food and water, the sticks turned into snakes. The snakes bit the men from the other valley. They all died and the King with the magic drum was saved. Or he might tell them the version that he heard as a boy from the Mission Lady. This Chief had a magic basket. He put five fishes and bread in the Magic Basket and fed his tribe, all the warriors and women and children, and had some left over for the dogs.

If a young man came to listen to Kokonte, he would tell him about the young hunter who was going through the forest when a great weight landed on his back. He heard a voice: ‘I am an old man, carry me or I will kill you’. The young hunter carried the weight on his back farther and farther until he was very tired and stooped. He stopped beside a pond. He saw his reflection in the water. It was not an old man on his back! It was a lazy, fat monkey on his back! He straightened up, threw back his shoulders like a true Ashanti hunter. The monkey fell into the water and drowned. The young hunter got the monkey off his back and became the chief of his tribe.

If it was night, he would tell visitors from far away with their funny clothes and shiny cameras, why the sun and moon are in the sky. Long, long ago, the sun and moon lived in a beautiful valley and were very happy. A big storm came with black clouds and poured water into their valley. The water rose and covered their house. They climbed up the hills. The water rose higher and higher until they had nowhere to go. So they jumped into the air and have stayed in the sky ever since.

Kokonte was smoking and watching but no one was coming down the Kakum trail. No one had come for a week. The tourists, who came to Ghana from far away with much money, were afraid of the heat. Soon the rains would cool the jungle and they would return to listen to his tales of ancient spirits with smiles on their faces and whispers of disbelief. Then he would put on his leopard skin robes, bone necklaces, tribal hat and mask and shake his rattle sticks. They would dance in the great festival of Founders Day and the wise teachers would come from the Schools of the Curious Minds with their happy children who listened to him with eager eyes and many questions. He loved to tell them their ancient legends.

When there were many people, he would chant his greatest story about Nyame, the Supreme Spirit of the Wind. Nyame was the bravest leader who fought the men with guns. He climbed up the Mount of Afadjato and hurled a mighty stone down on his enemies and killed them all so that there was peace in the land. He came bounding down to leap on the rock and shout his triumph to the skies. The spirits in the wind were proud of Nyame and wanted him to be great in their spirit world. They made the winds into a mighty whirling tempest that sucked Nyame into the sky and he became the Great Spirit of the Winds.

Kokonte would dance and whirl and point to the Sacred Clearing around the great rock that was Nyame’s earthly shrine. The children would watch with big eyes and believe because it was true, the Wise Kokonte said so. But the people from away would look sideways at each other and smile. They believe that their spirit goes up to Heaven when they die where everybody is happy. They do not believe that spirits stay where they were when they were alive in the trees and birds and flowers. Great lives make great spirits and they are in the wind. These spirits say where the wind will blow and how hard it will blow and where it will drop rain!

On this hot day in August, Kokonte was quite content to rest in his rattan hammock and smoke his pipe until the safari guides brought more listeners. He dreamily watched the sacred stone in a shimmering haze. Of all his stories, he cherished the legend of Nyame because he knew it was true. He had seen the signs many times in the winds and the clouds. He was seeing them now. When the Sun God made great heat, Nyame gathered his terrible strength within his stone and called the winds to gather. The winds joyfully responded and answered Nyame’s summons with gusty dancing.

Kokonte knew that Nyame was calling now. He could see that the mangroves and the oil palms and the vines of the jungle were all shimmering and weaving as the breezes heard the call and rushed to join the celebration. He watched the communion on the great stone as they played with little spirals of dirt. The eddies swirled faster and faster as Nyame commanded His Wind! Kokonte bowed his head as he watched the Spirit of the Great Wind climb to live in the clouds and show his might to lands and peoples far away.

Soon there would be many people coming down the Kakum trail and he would tell them the story of Nyame. Until then, he would sleep and dream.

For four days Nyame led his winds as they spiralled over the jungles of Ghana, drinking water from the lakes, cooling the days, dropping rain for the crops and cattle, gathering strength and growing in size until the big waters came where other spirits challenged. Nyame urged them on.

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CHAPTER TWO

TUESDAY, AUGUST 31, 2010

Sekondi is the ancient seaport of Ghana. It has grown into a modern city of 335,000. The deep-sea harbour exports timber, plywood, oil and its dry-dock repairs ocean freighters. Takoradi is a mile west along the coast, a quiet seaside resort with beautiful sand beaches and a peaceful harbour for fish boats and leisure craft. Takoradi is a popular tourist stop on tours of the Gold, Ivory and Slave Coasts. Vendors line the seaside streets to provide tourists with exhibits and souvenirs of Ancient Africa. Storytellers chant legends about spirits, witch doctors, voodoos and mystiques.

Orien Ghambutu is a vendor of authentic African crafts made in the villages. His Ashanti Craft stall is on the most popular part of Takoradi’s beach road. He is a tall, muscular sixty-year-old with a huge smile. His hair is a close-cropped white cap that gives him a distinguished aura, always helpful in convincing customers. Business was slow this afternoon in August so he was dozing in the back room. In an attempt to escape the stifling heat he strolled out onto the veranda to see if there was any sign of a change over the hills to the north. Ghana was in the tenth day of a hot spell that was unusual even though it is within fifty miles of the equator. August traditionally brought cooling rains. Not this year. He peeled the cotton shirt off his back and sagged into his wicker chair that groaned a welcome like an old friend. When the visitors come he would put on his headpiece and robes and shake his monkey rattle. He squinted up Harbour Road hoping to see one tourist car coming off the Accra Road but Takoradi looked deserted. The pavement shimmered! Little eddies of wind twirled the dust and refuse. A draped old woman padded out of the covered market, her feet bulbous in canvas slippers. She braved the hot road to gain the shaded walk. Somebody had enough energy to practice the Kpalogo drum and Orien tapped his foot to the ancient rhythm. Soon the bands would be thumping and the dancers performing and the beach would be alive and prosperous. He squinted at the sky to the north. A puff of white over Kakum Park told him hope that soon the clouds would come and with them the visitors who kept him alive.

Long ago Takoradi had been one of the busiest ports for the traders in ivory and gold and the Ashanti were sold as slaves in the marketplace. The white visitor’s curiosity in old forts and slave compounds puzzled Orien, but joyfully accepted their cash.

He looked down at the harbour. All the fish boats were in. Tuesday. Fishermen didn’t fish on Tuesday. When he was a boy, he asked an old fisherman why he didn’t fish on Tuesday. It had always been so, he said. Africa is legends and customs.

Orien smiled as he watched a girl in a bright yellow sash and a red headscarf lolling under a palm near the beach with a boy in cut-off jeans. Orien liked young lovers. Boys liked to spend money on their girls and they bought things Orien had to sell. He sold many fertility dolls.

The girl was Dar Loti, a student librarian, and the boy was Sam Jocahu, whose father owned a big steel factory and was paying for their marriage celebrations. They had been married in Accra on Sunday in the little white church with many friends and relatives eating and drinking and dancing to make sure they had a happy life and many children. After tiring hours they had managed to escape and drive to Takoradi where they had a big room in a tourist hotel and made love until the heat drove them to the beach. They were happy to be alone.

Dar untied her red headscarf. Do you remember buying it for me Sam?

Of course I remember. It was our first date! I took you to the Accra Fair.

It is my most precious thing. She kissed him and laughed. I wore it to my wedding and I brought it with me because you kissed me for the first time when you tied it under my chin. Her hands caressed it lovingly. She draped it carelessly around her neck I will keep it for the rest of my life. It will always remind me of our first date. She snuggled closer. It was cooler under the trees. They sat contentedly looking out to sea and talking about the rest of their adventure together.

There was a sudden gust of wind! A cloud of dust fairies danced along the street. A stronger eddy twisted the fronds on the palm trees and whipped the harbour into a pattern of waves.

A bigger wind swept over Dar and Sam.

It whipped away her beautiful red scarf.

She screamed and reached for it, My scarf!

It fluttered and twisted like a bird, flying higher and higher!

They watched as it was swept from view.

Lori sobbed on Sam’s shoulder: It’s gone Sam! I wonder what will happen to it?

Nyame inspired his winds to go higher and higher until they twisted in a mighty circle dance that became faster and stronger. Nyame frolicked to the coast, dropped rain in one place, sent swirling gusts to awaken the people, sent squalls to remind them he was strong, and danced over the fish boats. He sucked up water because water made him stronger. He commanded the winds to climb higher and higher until they reached colder air that gave Nyame a beautiful mantle. He surged slowly westward along the West African Coast. The peoples of the forests and the towns and the coast cheered and danced and sang and hugged as rain brought new life to their land. For three days Nyame flowed along the coast until the continent was left behind.

Nyame bravely ventured into the great Atlantic Ocean where other spirits challenged. Nyame had other plans. Nyame gradually curved northward and moved at a more leisurely pace.

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CHAPTER 3

NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTRE, MIAMI, FLORIDA,

WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 8

I had put in a lot of extra hours during the last two weeks because of storm activity. The hurricane season had hardly begun and already seven tropical disturbances were being tracked. I had intended to play golf today, but here I am heading for the office. I’ve been in this weather business for over thirty years, serving on many stations around the globe, and I never get tired of watching nature’s greatest performances. Now, as Senior Hurricane Specialist for the Atlantic Region, I not only study some of the most spectacular systems but also some of the most destructive. There was one very strong low-pressure system developing in western Africa that had attracted my attention because of unusual behaviour. That’s why I had decided to see what was developing.

The streets of Miami were cool and traffic light so that the drive to the National Hurricane Office on 17th Street was rather pleasant. Later in the day the streets would be choked with cars because there was a baseball game in the nearby stadium. I wheeled into the parking lot and was grateful that my spot was vacant. Sometimes visitors ignore the ‘N. Kinsella’ sign and take advantage of my location close to the entrance.

I grabbed my computer case and headed for the shining white building, which I always thought looked like a modern missionary temple. I suppose we could be considered as sort of ‘high priests’ because our prophecies affect the lives of millions, more than any religion on the planet, although I never have any feeling of divinity when I make my predictions. We certainly are the messengers of the planet’s weather that could be pleasantly charming or terribly murderous. I suppose our spacious office could be likened to an ancient temple with ‘prayer’ stations and dedicated ‘disciples’ bowed before their green-eyed ‘oracles’. Anyway, I better stop this mental nonsense and see if I can get out of here in a hurry and play a few holes before it gets too hot.

I entered my office and left the door open to let my staff know I was available for discussion. I had just hung up my jacket and loosened my tie when Hazel Moira, Night Forecaster, saw me and came in. I looked at her and smiled because I suddenly realized that the religious theme could be extended to Miss Moira She was often referred to as ‘Witch Hazel’ or ‘The High Priestess’ because she possessed an uncanny ability to foresee what the various systems were going to do. She was the most earnest ‘weatherman’ I had ever known. She looked on the profiles of weather systems as if they were personalities with decision-making abilities, a sort of philosophy toward weather analysis that I found interesting. I wondered whether her Afro-American background had any influence on her judgment.

I make no rules about clothing in the office. Most of the staff wears casual attire and none take advantage. With Hazel, her attire was always a pleasing surprise, no matter what the season. She was a tall, statuesque woman with a honey-coloured skin that deserved to be seen. This muggy Florida day, she wore a white skirt and top combination that tennis stars made popular. A white headband restrained her black hair. Around her neck was the string of wooden carvings that she wore with every costume. She laughingly claimed that she used the beads to forecast and often found them amazingly reliable. Hazel was one of many Afro-Americans I had worked with in my years with the weather service and the ethnic origins blended unnoticed as far as I was concerned. After all, I had married a beauty from Thailand! I did think Hazel sometimes became a little too emotionally involved in this business of predicting the weather. However, this was offset by her prodigious ability