The Adinkra Cloth by Mary C. Aldridge Our mother was dying: grief ate her heart like a witch. On the night of her death, she called me to her side. "Oliasso, oldest of my sons, you have twelve years now, but you are not strong enough to fight your father's brother, and I am too weak to call my own brother to help you. When I am dead, you children will be defenseless. So do what I tell you: take my body into the bush, dig a pit, and wrap me in the adinkra cloth from my marriage chest. Lay a fire in the pit and leave me there for two days. The cloth will not burn; when you open it, you will find my ashes. Then take clay from the riverbed; rub my ashes into the clay, make a bowl and color it red. Wrap it in the adinkra cloth and lay it on my death-fire. In one day, the bowl will be cooked. Roll up the cloth and bring it out and say, 'Our Mother, we are hungry.' Then you will see what happens. Also, keep the adinkra cloth. Keep-" She stopped speaking and closed her eyes. Grief was done with her. When I had wept, I opened the marriage chest that her twin brother, the Lord Mbanyo, had carved for her many years ago, in the far land of her birth. Inside the chest were things she had brought from her home, which belonged only to her: silver bracelets and rings, brass necklaces, images of strange gods done in bronze. There were three little stone jars whose contents I could not guess. At the bottom of the chest, neatly rolled, was the adinkra cloth. It was blue cotton, patterned with black spirit signs. I removed it, brought it to the bed, and carefully wrapped it around our mother. I woke my little brothers. The four of us bent our backs to lift her. Even though we were but four children, our mother's body was light in our arms, as if the adinkra cloth were filled with gentle thoughts. We carried her out of the house. It was the dry season, and a full moon shone on the still compound that once had been our father's. Now his younger brother claimed all the goods and people in the compound. Most of all he coveted our mother for the magic he believed she had; but he would never have her now. We crept in silence out the compound gate and made our way down the village street. The night was as hushed as if the moon had poured out a sleeping potion over animals and people. Chami, the youngest of us, was afraid to go into the bush. He was only four years old. I told him, "You must come, our mother asked this. Don't you think her spirit is here, watching you?" He dried his tears and came with us. The woods whispered as the dead who could not rest came to see what we were doing. We couldn't see them, but I felt their presence. I said, "Forgive us, dead people, for entering your home. I have a task to do for my mother." The dead withdrew respectfully. It was not so bad after that. Ilomi, who was ten, carried a spade, and so did Kiwaso, who was seven. We dug the pit, not very deep, and I laid the fire in it. When the fire died, we lifted our mother's body in the adinkra cloth; again it was very light. We placed her on the coals. Chami and Kiwaso began to cry. Ilomi and I comforted them; then we went home. For two days, we left our mother in the pit. It was only the next morning after we put her there when Uncle came to the house. I stopped him in the yard. I bowed. "Our mother is no Better; she can't see you." Our uncle was a tall, strong man. When he was angry, he looked fierce. "Tell her she must see me. I am her husband now. Tell her." I went into the house and came out again. "Our mother has blood. She says you must go away." Uncle looked disgusted. He hated such things and sent his own wives away when their bleeding came. "Tell her I will be back. I will be back as her husband." When the two days were over, we went by night to the bush. We opened the cloth. It was not burnt. Inside were white ashes. I closed the cloth, and we went to the river, waded into the cool water, and dug clay. I sat on the bank and sprinkled the ashes into the clay, then worked the clay into a bowl. Chami, squatting beside me, asked, "Why are you putting Mama in a bowl?" "Shh," said Ilomi. I painted the bowl red with seed dyes and wrapped it in the adinkra cloth. We went back into the bush and placed the bowl in the death-fire, which was still glowing. The next day, my father's first wife came to our house. She was one of the brides his father had chosen. She was brown, like all my father's people. Only our mother was black. She said, "Tell my sister I have come. She must not continue to refuse our husband's brother. She is no better than the rest of us. I will speak with her." I went in and came out. "My mother says she dreamed last night of a jar that would not open." The first wife retreated a step, for she was pregnant with our father's last child. I hardly had to say, "Mother does not dare speak with you until the dream's influence is gone," for our father's first wife was already hurrying down the path to her own house. I went inside. The little ones were eating my meal-cakes, which had big dry lumps of raw meal in them. The other wives hadn't asked us to share with them after our father died and our mother became sick. Ilomi said, "Oliasso, what will they do when they know our mother is dead?" "And not here," added Kiwaso, putting down his cake. He gave it a sorrowful look. I knew pretty well what Uncle would do, but I shrugged as if it didn't matter. I sat down and took a cake. It was heavier than the ones our mother made. Only Chami was still eating, spreading his cakes with honey. I bit into the cake. Its crust was hard as coconut rind. "Maybe," Kiwaso said, looking at his feet, "maybe Uncle will send a leopard after you." Ilomi and I hissed together, "Never say that!" and Kiwaso looked frightened. Everyone except Chami stopped eating altogether. We knew who the leopard was, who had killed our father. That night, we left the village again and went to get the bowl. The night was inky, with clouds covering the sky. I felt spirits wandering unhappily and wished the other three boys could stay home. Surely something was going to happen. But mother would have expected us to do it together. I only wished the night felt less evil. The bush spirits were whispering excitedly among themselves as we came to our mother's death-fire. Something brushed wetly against my cheek, and I jumped. It was only a leaf. By the death-fire's glow, we unwrapped the adinkra cloth. The bowl was firm, and though it had been on the fire, it was cool enough to touch. I gave it to Ilomi to hold while I rolled up the adinkra cloth. "I want to hold Mama," said Chami. "You'll drop it," Ilomi said. "No, I won't. Oliasso, please?" "Yes, let him hold the bowl." I stuffed the adinkra cloth down my tunic and knotted my waist belt so it wouldn't fall. Chami giggled, dropped the bowl down his front, and tied his belt too. He looked pregnant. "Stop playing," Ilomi scolded. Kiwaso said softly, "Oh, Oliasso, look!" He pointed. Off through the trees, something was moving. Something black as the night around us. It came toward us, slinking through the brush; two green eyes pointed our way. "A leopard!" The same fearful thought held all of us rooted to the ground. The leopard came into the clearing where the death-fire was. It was a big leopard, not spotted, but black from the tips of its ears to the tip of its tail. We could not move from fright. It circled us once, and I thought I felt its hot breath. Its green eyes glittered. It looked from me to Ilomi, from Ilomi to Kiwaso to Chami. Its tail switched. It began to stalk Chami, whose legs bent from fright. He sank to his knees and covered his face as the leopard came closer. The leopard stopped. It gave a puzzled yowl and backed away. Ilomi and I ran to Chami. I picked him up. The bowl in his tunic bumped against my chest. The leopard started to approach us again, then backed away very quickly and whimpered. Ilomi grabbed Kiwaso's hand. We ran out of the clearing, back through the brush, all the way to the village and never looked back. When we got home, I hid the cloth and bowl at the bottom of Mother's marriage chest, for my uncle had no claim on that. Uncle came to us in the morning. He stormed up to the house, shoving me aside so I fell. I got up and followed him in as my three brothers quietly slipped out. "Where is your mother?" he demanded, looking bigger than ever in our little house. "Dead." "Dead!" He seized the front of my tunic. A wild green light came into his eyes. "Where is her body?" "I burned it in the bush!" "Where? Show me!" He dragged me out to the bush where the death-pit was, but it seemed to me he already knew the way. He looked at the empty, dead pit. He looked at me. "Where is the body?" I looked away from his furious eyes. "Perhaps a leopard ate it." He broke a switch off a thorny jitaio tree and began to beat me, saying, "Where is she? Where has she gone? Did she go back to that brother of hers? Tell me where she went!" After a while we returned to the village. Uncle stood out in the street and complained loudly to the other men. "My foreign wife has run away! This boy claims she died, but there's nobody!" They all began to scold, demanding I tell them where my mother had gone. I kept repeating that she was dead and I had burned her up. "She's run away," one of the old men said finally in disgust. "That's what comes of marrying foreigners. Your brother was ill-advised!" "She's my wife now! I want her back!" "But she's only trouble," the other men protested. "What do you want her for? You have her children, four fine boys. You have her pots, cloths, brass and silver bracelets. Take them and give them to your other wives, who are more deserving. And she was a hard worker, at least. Her granaries are full. Give that to your wives as well, and forget her!" "1 want her," Uncle said. "The young men must go to her land, to her brother Mbanyo, and bring her back." "Oh, no!" the leader of the young men spoke up at once. "That's a great journey, and who knows what'll happen in a foreign land? Suppose we go all that way and Lord Mbanyo won't release her? Very likely she'll tell him a lot of lies about how badly she was treated here. They are twins; he'll believe anything she says. Who can win against a great lord in his own country? Besides, we have our own farms to think of." "Yes, the land must be cleared!" "Forget the woman," the other men urged. Uncle's fists clenched; his face shook with anger. "And who is to feed her children? Why should my other wives work to fill their greedy mouths?" "Someone has to feed children," the old men said. "Your dead brother's sons are your sons." Now I clenched my fists. Never, never, never! The old men said, "This is enough," and everybody walked away to go about their business. My uncle waited until they were all gone, then he grabbed my shoulder and dug in his fingers like iron talons. "You know where she is," he hissed. "You'll pay!" He started dragging me to our mother's house in the compound. The bite of his fingers on my shoulder brought stinging tears to my eyes, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying. When we came to the house, he threw me inside and glared at all four of us. "Does she think she can escape me? You are my sons now, and 1 shall use you as I please. And she will know. The witch will know, I'm sure. When she sees how I use you, your mother will come back and then she will do as I say!" "But she-" began Chami. Ilomi pinched him. "She'll come," my uncle whispered. His face twisted with anger like a fearsome mask. "I will have the woman and her magic! My brother knew nothing." He sneered at us. I hid my fists behind my back. "He could have made you little princes. Far greater even than your uncle, the Lord Mbanyo, in your mother's country. When I have her magic, I can do that for you! Would you like to be princes and ride on fine steeds and wear gold, copper, and coral?" "I would," Chami said breathlessly. "When?" "When your mother comes back." Chami laughed. "But she is-" Ilomi slapped him. Chami rocked backwards with astonishment, and tears rushed from his eyes. He wailed, "Oliasso!" I jumped up. "Shame on you, Ilomi, picking on the little one!" "Yes, shame!" cried Kiwaso, meaning it. "Mama said to take care of our brother!" Kiwaso and I continued to yell at Ilomi until our uncle got angry and shouted at us all to be quiet. But Chami wept and wouldn't talk to him anymore. Uncle said, "Tomorrow you can all go out to the fields. The land must be cleared and broken for planting." Ilomi looked astonished. "But that's men's work! We aren't strong enough to do that!" "Do it or be beaten." The next day we went to the fields. Uncle told each of us what to do. It was a grown man's work. The other men in the family muttered among themselves. Nobody dared speak up. Years ago our uncle had gone to the city to study with the magic men there. Now whenever something disturbing happened, people suspected him. We had to clear the dry brush and chop up the land. It had been baking long months in the sun, hard work even for men. Ilomi and Kiwaso and I went first to work on Chami's part. My uncle watched us. By the day's end, we were able to finish Chami's work and part of Kiwaso's. Our uncle beat Ilomi and me. Then he turned to Kiwaso, who was trembling. "Do you want this to happen to you? Tell your brothers to pray for your mother's return!" "She's dead," Kiwaso whispered. He beat Kiwaso. We all started toward our house. When we got there, he told us: "No. That's not your house anymore. From now on, you live in the goat shed." I said, "I'll take our mother's marriage chest, then. That belongs to us." "Nothing belongs to you!" Father's youngest brother, overhearing, spoke up: "That was their mother's; it was Lord Mbanyo's gift. It belongs to his sister's sons now." Wild green light jumped in Uncle's eyes. Our other uncle stepped back quickly, but said, "Would you claim a twin's gift?" The other men began to mutter against breaking a twin bond. Uncle said, "Take the chest, then, and nothing else!" "They have to take some food!" "Their mother can feed them," said Uncle, "or let them dig wild peanuts when they finish their work-which they did not do today! Go on, you boys! Get out of here!" We went into the goat shed. At least it was clean. The door was made of sticks. I tied it shut. Alone we sat in the faint afternoon light that stole through the cracks. "I'm hungry," Chami said. "I don't want to go and eat peanuts!" "Hush." I was almost too tired and sore to be hungry. But of course, we must eat. There would be tomorrow. I went to the wall and peeked through a crack. Nobody was outside. I went back and sat down on the floor with my brothers and opened the marriage chest. The bowl was there, wrapped in the adinkra cloth. I unfolded the cloth and lifted out the bowl and set it on the ground. Chami whispered, "What are you going to do?" I ran my tongue over my dusty lips. "Our-" My voice broke from the dryness in my throat. I coughed and grasped the red bowl with both hands. I said softly, "Our Mother, we are hungry." A wonderful smell filled the goat shed. A rich stew of meat and vegetables, such as our mother used to make, appeared in the bowl. "Oooh!" Chami and Kiwaso said together. Ilomi swallowed hard and said nothing. We had to cat with our fingers, for we had no spoons. We ate and ate, yet there was food in the bowl. Only, when we had enough, the scraps disappeared. The bowl cleaned itself. I picked up the adinkra cloth to rewrap the bowl. The cloth felt good in my hands, cool and soothing, I had a sudden thought, and pulled off my tunic. I laid the adinkra cloth across the welts on my back. All at once they were eased, and in the same moment I felt a sense of our mother's presence, filling the shed with her love. "Come," I said to Ilomi. I wrapped first Ilomi, then Kiwaso in the adinkra cloth, and the cloth healed their wounds too. Then Chami insisted on taking his turn, though he wasn't hurt. He smiled broadly when I laid the cloth over his shoulders. "Mama's here," he said. In the morning, before we went to the fields, we had a breakfast of delicious cakes with fruit and honey, and then the bowl cleaned itself and filled up again with fine, creamy beer. We drank our fill, and the bowl cleaned itself again. I wrapped it carefully in the adinkra cloth. Then I bowed to the cloth and bowl. "Thank you, Our Mother." It was a bad day in the fields, just as before. We did Chami's work first, then began on Kiwaso's. The sun was unforgiving. The dust flew in our faces, and our backs ached. When the sun was very high, Kiwaso fainted. Chami seized a gourdful of the men's water and poured it on our brother. At once Uncle struck him hard enough to knock him down. "That does not belong to you!" "But my brother is sick!" Chami was not very afraid of our uncle. But I was afraid when Uncle looked at him, silently, for a long time. The next day, when we left the goat shed after our secret breakfast, Uncle was waiting for us by the compound gate. "You three go on. I'm taking Chami into the forest to hunt with me." My throat closed with fear. I whispered, "I'll go with you." "Yes. You would, to get out of your work! Go to the fields and make sure you finish what you have to do, unless you want another beating!" "What are we going to hunt?" asked Chami, but Uncle did not answer him. "Go on to the fields," I told Ilomi and Kiwaso as Uncle walked way with Chami. I went back into the shed and opened the marriage chest. I gathered up the adinkra cloth. "Our Mother," I whispered, "I am afraid. I think our father's brother means evil to Chami." My mother's presence touched me. I stuffed the cloth down the front of my tunic and tied my belt at the waist so it wouldn't slip out. I left the shed and ran after my uncle and Chami. It was dark and quiet in the bush. I could see no sign of where my uncle had passed. I stood silent, listening to my heart hammer. Where were they, and what would he do to Chami? "O dead people who own the forest, have you seen a tall man and a little boy?" "We saw a little boy pass," whispered a voice like wind tickling stiff leaves. "And one with him, but whether man or beast we do not know." "A standing beast or a man with a tail," another voice sighed. "With green eyes like a fire." "Which way?" I asked. The underbrush ahead of me bent to one side. "Thank you," I whispered, and followed the path. I walked quickly, into the stillness and the deep darkness. Then I heard a soft hopeless whimpering and ran to it. Chami crouched by a huge old tree. Around and around him, slowly, in an ever-closing circle, stalked a great black leopard. Suddenly, its tail switched and the beast changed shape. Uncle stood over Chami, smiling with teeth that for a second were too long. "Weep, nephew," he said softly. Skin crawled on my spine. "Your mother will come when she hears you crying." Chami moaned. Uncle again became a leopard, circling closer, closer. I pulled the adinkra cloth out of my tunic and crept forward. I prayed the beast would not smell me. It put out a great hooked paw to touch Chami's face. Chami screamed. I jumped forward and flung the adinkra cloth over the leopard's face. The beast screamed louder than Chami. It began to struggle and claw at the cloth. I snatched up Chami. His arms went around my neck tighter than a baby monkey's. I started to run, then stopped. The cloth! The leopard was still fighting it. The cloth whipped around the beast's head as if lashed by a wind, though the air was still. Suddenly the beast became a man. He struggled with the cloth, tore it from his head, sat up, and looked at us. His face was scratched and bleeding from clawing at the adinkra cloth. His eyes shone green. "Curse you," he said softly. "How far away is she? Too far to hear the child cry out?" He stood and threw the torn adinkra cloth aside. "Perhaps she doesn't believe I'll harm him," he said, coming toward us. I backed away, but he seized my arm. His breath in my face was warm and rank. "I will have her. Come; we will go home." I set Chami on the ground. "Run and pick up that old cloth of our mother's," I told him casually. He brought me the adinkra cloth, and we walked back to the village with Uncle. Anger and greed made him steam like a running beast. When we reached the compound, he shoved Chami aside and gripped my shoulder again. "Now," he said, "you and I will bring her here." "She's dead." "Dead or alive, I'll have her!" He pulled me into the shed, leaving Chami outside. He left the door open for light. "There's only one thing of hers that I don't have, and that is her marriage chest. So." "That belongs to us!" "And you belong to me," he said with a smile. He pulled the chest out of the corner and sat on the floor. My fists knotted. I felt my own weakness. He opened the chest. The red bowl was on top; he tossed it aside. "She never could make decent pottery." He lifted out one of the little stone jars. "What magic did she do with this, I wonder?" "You have no right to touch those things. They are family things of my mother's." If I were a man, I could seize the chest, I could strike him-but even in my thoughts, I faltered at striking my father's brother. In spite of all, he was head of the family. He opened the jar and shook some of its contents into his hand. Even in the dimness I saw the red glow of a coppery dust. "Aha! Copper for magic!" he said. He dipped a finger in the gleaming dust and stroked his forehead, cheeks, and lips with the copper. He sucked in his breath. "Yes! I feel it--power, hot as wine!" He unstopped another jar and poured out a white powder. "Bone," he gloated. "Old bones from some magician's tomb, no doubt, to strengthen the copper's magic!" He streaked the powdered bone on his face beside the smears of copper. He laughed softly.... "She should have taken this with her. She-" He looked at me again. "Is she really dead?" I nodded. "Not much of a witch, if she couldn't even stop her own sickness." I put my clenched hands behind my neck. "Mother died of grief after the leopard killed our father. Magic is too dangerous to use." "Dangerous to fools, yes." He took out the third jar. "And what, I wonder, is this?" He smiled at the little jar. "Could it be blood? I wonder. Yes." He shook it. "Now I see. She isn't dead, you little liar. She put some of her blood in here, so you could call her." His eyes narrowed then. "And I think you will call her, Oliasso. I don't trust that woman." "I tell you, our mother is dead!" He caught my arm and jerked me close to him, forcing me to kneel between his thighs. With one strong hand holding my right arm twisted up behind me, he smeared copper and bone on my face. Then he opened the third jar and shook the contents into his palm It was a powder, dark brown: dried blood. He laughed again. "How good of her to leave all this behind! You will call her now, boy." I shuddered. Why would our mother leave blood behind when she had left us the bowl and the adinkra cloth? I shook my head. "I won't." He hurt my arm. 1 cried out, and Chami rushed into the shed. "Stop hurting Oliasso!" "All right." He threw me aside and grabbed Chami. "Do you want your little brother to call her, Oliasso?" I sat up, shivery and cold inside. "I'll call." He dipped his fingers in the dried blood and smeared it around my face. My features turned numb. "Now call her," he said. "Call her by copper, blood, and bone!" I made my mouth work. "Our M-Mo-Mother." My own blood beat like thunder in my ears. Would I see our mother's ghost-or some other thing? Whose blood was on my face? "I c-call by copper, b-bone, and blood-" Something ripped. The dim air in the shed tore apart. A tall black man, dark as our mother, stood wavering in ghostly form before us. Uncle breathed, "Lord Mbanyo!" and seized me, holding me against his chest. "Your blood!" The Seeming of our mother's brother loomed so tall that his ghostly form stooped under the shed's roof. He wore brass jewelry and a long loose robe, patterned like the adinkra cloth. A knife hung from a belt at his waist. His voice when he spoke was soft and deep and echoed in my ears like our mother's voice. "Where is my twin sister?" Uncle ignored the question. "You are in my power," he said. He smeared the blood off my face and rubbed some on his own. His voice was a little thicker when he spoke again. "I hold you by copper, blood, and bone, and I hold your sister's sons." One strong arm tightened around my throat. I found it hard to breathe. Uncle said, "And I will hold you here until your body dies for lack of its soul, and then you will have no choice but to serve me forever or perish." "Where is my sister?" Chami said, "She's dead, and our father's brother is mean to us!" He ran to the Seeming and looked astonished when his hand passed through Lord Mbanyo's form. He jumped back. "It's a ghost!" "Not yet," Lord Mbanyo said, "though I will be if my soul is kept from my body too long." His gaze settled on Uncle, and he added scornfully, "Just enough knowledge of magic to do evil!" Uncle hissed. "Enough to master you, and everyone else when I have your power at my service!" His voice became taunting. "You, great lord, you will listen and poison and spread fear for me, like the basest servant!" "Or I can perish," Lord Mbanyo corrected him, "which I prefer to do." "Will you watch your sister's sons perish first, one by one, and very slowly, my lord? Have you ever seen a child's body torn by a leopard?" Lord Mbanyo seemed to grow still. "You are a shape-changer?" "He turns into a leopard and kills people," said Chami. "He tried to kill me, and Oliasso stopped him with our adinkra cloth!" Lord Mbanyo said, "Ahh." "Well, great lord?" said Uncle. "Shall I start with the oldest or the youngest? Which one shall be first?' His arm tightened again around my throat until black lights sparkled before my eyes. "It's so easy to kill a child." "Let the boy live," Lord Mbanyo said in a voice like dust. "What do you want me to do?" Uncle laughed. "What a fool, to sell yourself for children you've never seen before!" He eased his hold on my throat. "I want you to begin with the head of the council. Find out where he keeps his wealth, and when you do, frighten his household so they run away-and I'll seize his wealth." I croaked, "Please let me go. My throat hurts." "And mine is dry from so much talking," Uncle said. He let me go, leaned back, and grinned. "Oliasso, bring me some wine," he ordered. "You, Chami, come sit beside me while your brother fetches wine." "No," said Chami. I said, "Do as Uncle says!" The little one looked hurt and rebellious, but he went to sit at Uncle's feet. Lord Mbanyo watched them. I picked up the red bowl and went outside. Standing in the bright sunlight, I whispered, "Our Mother-our enemy is thirsty." I took the bowl back into the shed. It was brimming with palm wine. I knelt down and passed it to Uncle. "I'm thirsty," said Chami. Uncle grinned. "Share it with me." I had never seen him in such a good mood, and my heart nearly stopped. I said sharply to Chami, "This is the best palm wine from Uncle's first wife. It's not for children!" "But I-" "Your brother grows wise," Uncle said to Chami. He put the red bowl to his lips and drank a long drink. He set the bowl down and grinned at me. "That is truly excellent-" He screamed. He clutched at his belly and clawed it. "Fire ants! Fire ants! My gut is crawling with fire ants!" He struck at me. I jumped back. Lord Mbanyo said, "Quickly! Wipe my blood from his face!" I snatched up the adinkra cloth and dipped it into the palm wine. I lunged for Uncle, who was still clawing at his belly and batting at me. I swiped at the dried blood on his face. Chami saw what I was doing and leaped to help me. Uncle tried to cover his face. He shouted and struck out at the little one. I climbed onto his chest and rubbed furiously with the wet cloth. His fist knocked me backwards and made me see black lights again. I heard him groan. "Fire ants, fire ants in my belly!" Blinking, I saw him stagger to his feet. His face was clean. "The adinkra cloth!" shouted Lord Mbanyo. "Lay it at my feet!" I jumped up. Uncle made a grab at the adinkra cloth; it tore in two. There was a terrible shrieking noise as it tore. Chami screamed, "You tore our mother!" He jumped at Uncle and struck him with the red bowl right between the legs. Uncle sank moaning to his knees. I caught up the two halves of the adinkra cloth and laid them at the ghostly figure's feet. Lord Mbanyo stepped down onto the cloth. He was as solid as I was. He drew his knife and went to Uncle and knelt down with the knife at Uncle's throat. "Go and bring the elders," he said to me in a very gentle voice, but I knew there would be no gentleness for my uncle. The river was smooth and still by our camp; beyond the shore, the dark forest rustled with the whispers of the dead. Lord Mbanyo knelt by our campfire. He placed the red bowl on a flat piece of stone, lifted his hand, and struck the bowl with a rock repeatedly, until it was powder. Chami sighed, and Kiwaso blinked at tears. Our mother's brother looked at them sternly. "Are you so selfish?" • They shook their heads. Chami leaned against my side. "Oliasso," Lord Mbanyo said. I took up the pieces of the adinkra cloth. For the last time, our mother's presence drifted through the world; a fragrant wind kissed me. I placed the pieces of cloth on the flames. Lord Mbanyo carefully gathered up all the clay dust and dropped it into the fire; he dusted his palms over the flames. He said softly, "Go to the arms of our ancestors, my sister. Your sons are with me. Rest, now; sleep." "Now she's gone," whispered Chami. Lord Mbanyo held out his arms. Somehow he managed to get us all into his embrace. "Now she rests," he said. ********************************************** About Mary C. Aldridge and "The Adinkra Cloth" I have one secret hate; when someone describes a book or a movie to me as "heartwarming," I know it is likely to be soppy, saccharine, and otherwise not worth reading. I would never have so stigmatized this story from our third issue, which was one of the half-dozen stories in its year to make the final Nebula balloting. It also took first place in our Cauldron vote. It was, and is, a fine, strong story with the feel of an African folk tale. In the final balloting, it did not win the Nebula. I have no idea what won it that year, but I'll bet a ripe peach-or plum, or any other piece of fruit you prefer-that it wasn't as good as this. I still consider this one of the best stories we've ever printed. And if you should ask why editors always speak of themselves in the plural-"the editorial we" being used only by royalty, editors, and people with tapeworms-I can say only that I haven't the least idea.