III
CHORUS ARCHITECTURE
In the millions of seconds that the fifty-five people of Osupa sang, they raised over five thousand of their indestructible spheres. The spheres peppered the surface of Canetis Nix like nests from an invasive species, all varying in size and pattern but remaining within the form of the sonic sphere that drifted around them every time they sang the structures up.
The olorin were growing deeper into their bodies and their bliss was getting stronger. They usually needed screams and shouts and roars to make the structures bigger. The olorin made sure they felt strong enough to break their throats.
Soon, the Mute Thieves themselves appeared, distant in the always-day skies of Canetis Nix like halved samurai. The bodies of Gbemisola Olohun and the fifty-four now spotted breastplates the color of olorin and throats like hard red stone. Their symbiosis with the euphoric was almost complete. It reached into their bones and turned them into hyper-vibrating elements, and made their ribcages into colossal echo chambers and their throats into weapons.
They knew how it worked. They wandered the powders of Canetis Nix looking for points of convergence. Only Gbemisola knew these points, where air and sky and sand found equilibrium enough to be shaped with song. Once found, they stood as symbol. Circle and dot. Chorus and convergent. Then the olorin flooded their blood with bliss and their wordless songs rose, followed after by the powders of Canetis Nix. The sands rose like smoke into the air and became steel at the end of sound.
To make the sandflow ornate, they used melisma; for flair, they roared like beasts; soprano brought finesse; bass-built foundation; and pitch increased density. They were a machine by now, their olorin growing tentacles that linked their mind, body and voice. They wandered Canetis Nix, building with voice, soaring, lost yet found.
After they built their last structure, the Mute Thieves appeared, sending thousands of boneships of varying sizes. Out of these ships came a zoo—smaller versions of the Mute Thieves with the same spiked bone armor and violet auras, leading and lifting and carrying abominations stranger than the eyes of the Convergent could believe. They put the creatures in some of the cages that the fifty-five had built and then afterwards, with a sting from the olorin and brief passages of voice, the cages were sealed.
Then, the Mute Thieves left the fifty-five alone on Canetis Nix, not to die but never to be let go, because they too were creatures acquired.
IV
RESONANCE
Ronke and Akanbi galloped up, with a sound like a shot, out of the darkness under the crust, onto the glazed deserts of Canetis Nix. As far as the eye could see, there rose spherical sculptures, layered and built like nests. Ronke zipped through this odd farm; Akanbi still gripping her neck, squinted through his eyes to see. He snapped up when Ronke stopped as if hit by a wall.
Twenty man-sized eggs lay in a depression on the ground of Canetis Nix. They pulsed and a fleshy redness squirmed behind their translucence.
“We are too late,” Ronke said inside his head. “They are in metamorphosis.” Ronke knew too much. Akanbi suspected she was just Obatala in another form. He climbed down her cool body onto the heat of Canetis Nix and moved closer to the pod of eggs.
“How?” Akanbi asked.
“The time it took to get here might have seemed like a few days to you, but it was nearly a decade to them. They must have merged with the thieves and entered into this state.”
The eggs were arranged in a spiral. The large thorny spheres that covered the surface of the white desert around them seemed immovable. Akanbi was unaware of all the cosmic life contained in them: hungry, thrashing, sleeping and calling to lost homes.
Akanbi stood by the eggs feeling futile. He could tell that his people, the people of Osupa were there. He could feel their hearts beating and smell a bitter sweetness in their blood. There were faces behind the sticky rainbowsheen of the eggshells. Gbolahan. The twins. Fatona.
He knew no one among them even though they had been recovering from their shared trauma as a collective. All his life he had been alone. He had failed those who sent him and now he was lost on another world. The discomfort of the situation hit him and Akanbi turned away from the eggs towards Ronke. He wanted to disappear completely.
“Ronke, can you take me anywhere I desire?”
“No. We are here to take these people home. We have to wait for them to wake up. Come, rest on my belly. You’re doing good. Obatala will see you again after this.” Akanbi saw that the eshimemi was lying on the heat of the desert, joyous. He went over and lay on its soft cold belly and waited.
After an eternity of dreamless anticipation, the eggs opened.
V
CONVERGENCE
The olorin and the human being have fused into one being against the predictions of the Mute Thieves. They emerge from their pods, new soldiers of tone, their backs serrated and their eyes pools of nothingness in which sound can be seen. Their tender throats have become split red things, like sliced fruit, and their heads are covered in plates of a porous tomato-red shell, as are their chests and thighs. They are beautiful, fleshless beneath these shells. No more human.
Akanbi staggers back as they slip out of the dripping eggs into the heat. They lay and dry in the permanent sun, while the largest egg seems to wait. Ronke says nothing. Akanbi looks from behind her head. The eshimemi sits on her side and watches the birthing.
The newborns begin to sing, a sound strangely human, like a memory of human song. They circle Gbemisola, the convergent, unborn queen. Her egg splits and she spills out. No shell, no spikes.
Akanbi thinks he is looking at a placenta or yolk when the queen unfurls into the air, a mucosal serpent of white noise. Her motions set off melodies which the air sings to itself. She stretches tall towards the sun, her every atom blooming with harmony, long fins cycling above the ground.
Ronke stands up in respect. The chorus of nineteen, all turned male, look to their queen. She in turn looks beyond Canetis Nix, letting out a sound, like birdsong unraveled.
In the sky, a circle appears. Point of convergence, here to nowhere. Here to everywhere. The queen sails into the sky, towards the Convergence, gentle as smoke.
Her chorus follows.
EMILY
MARIAN DENISE MOORE
In antebellum New Orleans, John Henderson advertised in the Daily Picayune for the return of a presumed runaway, a seven-year-old enslaved girl.
You are frozen there
Emily
one foot on the muddy gate to the American city one foot raised over brick laced into concrete between buildings higher than you’ve ever seen.
On foggy March mornings, women wearing starched cotton dresses stride by you into work you would recognize.
If I keep you poised there, I don’t have to imagine what happened:
the cotton dealer who misplaced his child’s favorite playmate;
the brothel owner that thought you a charming whimsy for his parlor; the errand that crushed you beneath a carriage’s wheels;
the race along the levee that ended with a tumble into the river.
You can see that I am kin
I can think of so many horrors.
Therefore—a gift—I’ll imagine one more possibility:
the man that recognized you,
hid you beneath his cloak,
and took you to live among the maroons in the swamp across the river.
Stay there Emily,
a moment longer
I only live ten miles and two hundred years away.
Your father is coming for you.
TO SAY NOTHING OF LOST FIGURINES
RAFEEAT ALIYU
Odun tore open a portal and it was as easy as brewing a cup of tea. He was eager to leave behind the dark wetness of the cave he stood in, and not just because it was cold in there. Within him, the voice of his stolen ngunja murmured and though Odun could not quite make out what they were saying, he took it
as a good sign. The rip he made was a gaping hole that exuded colour and warmth. Odun stepped into it and had to blink at the brilliant purples, yellows and oranges that swirled in constant motion around him. The portal closed behind him and in the space between dimensions, he started opening a new one in the direction of Kur when he heard commotion.
“Hold it right there!”
The words came before a slight figure materialised in front of him. Odun gritted his teeth. The newly enforced inter-portal patrol only worked between universes that were hostile towards outsiders. He had been so excited at the thought of reuniting with his figurine that he had not bothered reading up on the laws of Kur.
“Greetings to you and to those you hold in your possession,” the agent said in a deep, raspy voice.
“Greetings to you and those you hold in your possession,” Odun replied. Covered from head to toe in a flowing robe of pitch black, the border agent’s identity was hidden. Yet the greeting signalled that the agent was someone like Odun, someone selected to control the variety of staffs, wands and figurines that made up the corpus of the ngunja. There was a pause as the agent seemed to study Odun who had no choice but to tap his foot, impatiently waiting for the formalities to be over. His right ear felt itchy, and as he reached up to pull at it, he heard his stolen ngunja again. It was a whisper that felt like a cold wind travelling up his back and leaving goose pimples in its trail.
“Finally.”
On Tuntun Atlantic where Odun came from, no one was brave enough to touch a mage’s ngunja, let alone steal one. A brief moment of carelessness months ago had left him without one of his most critical abilities. The worst of it all was that Jooh was initially so quiet that Odun couldn’t even track down his own ngunja. Jooh formed part of the five nguja that were handed to Odun by his mentor before her death.
But this had to be the longest reading Odun had ever been subjected to. He could do the same—make use of his golden eye to reveal things that even that billowing cloak could not hide—but Odun was not as interested in the border agent as the agent was in him.
“Odun Kiamesa of Tuntun Atlantic,” the agent droned as though precious minutes were not wasted since their initial greeting. “Possessor of time, shapeshifting, resurrection, psychosomatic and terrakinesis abilities. I’m only sensing four…”
“Actually, that’s why I’m heading to Kur,” Odun said. “My fifth ngunja is there.” There was a pause before the agent said, “There are no records of you having entered…”
“It was stolen and I’m in the process of retrieving it.” Odun said. He thought: If only the bureaucracy stepped out of the way now, there was really no need to waste any more time.
“Oh, that will be a problem,” the agent said. “Humans aren’t allowed into Kur. You’re an esteemed mage and can be granted entry but you’ll have to emerge as you are.”
“Returning with my ngunja will be returning as I am,” Odun replied. “While we’re on the topic of rules, you must know that harbouring a stolen ngunja within your borders is an offence that can be escalated to the A.J.E.”
Even though he couldn’t see the agent’s face, he sensed a change in the air. Any mention of The Assembly of Justice and Enchantment—the supreme gathering of mages across portals and dimensions—tended to have that effect. It seemed his words had hit home. “Consult with whomever you have to,” Odun said.
A few more minutes passed before Odun heard the confirmation he’d been waiting for.
“The authorities at Kur will make an exception just this once. You are free to enter and retrieve your item under the supervision of a Kurian official. You will be expected to leave within 46 small hours. I trust a mage of your calibre can do what needs to be done in that time.”
By the time Odun emerged from the other side of the portal, it felt like hours had passed since he set out. Inter-dimensional travel was supposed to be quicker than the time it took a Pxyr to flap its wings and launch into the air. Odun’s head swam as he adjusted to the new environment, and the heavy stench of something akin to rotting trees that permeated the air did not help. He tripped on something and landed on the ground with a splash. Wetness immediately soaked through the layers of his clothes. Odun wryly recalled the adage that “the best way to kill one who possesses ngunja is to meet them at the other side of the portal.”
✦✦✦
When the notification came in, Aule thought it was a fluke. After five years as the sole government representative at the border town of Oeg, she was finally getting a job. Aule leaned forward to read the messages floating on her screen once more.
Task assigned: 20786876. Human mage at north-eastern border coordinates 10.1.13.
Banished to the far reaches of Kur, the only reason Aule knew the specifics of that code was because she had enough time to read the official handbook from top to bottom. She had once heard fellow mates at the training centre say that if one were to transfer all the data from the handbook to paper, it would occupy all 428 stories of the central government building.
Aule jumped when her transmission device beeped. Her device never beeped before, so she pressed accept hesitantly. It took a moment to recognise her immediate superior. The last time Aule saw Assistant Director Yon was five years ago after she passed her civil service exams on the sixth try. Yon looked at her, his distaste towards Aule obvious on his skin. On a normal day, it was mostly black outside the orange patches under his chin and around his wrists and ankles. The orange was now a bright red.
“Greetings sir.” Aule resisted the urge to clear her throat. She had been around Kurians all her life and knew to guard her emotions.
“I trust you’ve received the missive,” Yon said, opting not to reply to her greeting. “A human Esteemed Mage is at the north-eastern border. He has lost his ngunja. You are to escort him to pick it up and then see him out. No detours or unnecessary distractions.”
Yon ended the call abruptly. Used to this kind of attitude, Aule leapt to her feet and stepped out of the shack that was her office. In Nwo and other big cities, government offices were shiny buildings that reached into the stratosphere. Here in Oeg, it was a neo-wooden shack that stood on stilts surrounded by the swamp. Aule slipped into her watercraft through the latch on the roof and ignited it with her bracelet-key. She really should be more excited. While this was not her first time meeting a human, this would be the first time she would be meeting one after her toying with the idea of leaving Kur. She already knew that it would be impossible; she would never get the appropriate approval, but a human-Kurian hybrid could dream.
As Aule glided over the brackish water of the mangrove, one of many that cover the surface of Kur, she passed by the citizens she represented. The inhabitants of the northern mangroves did not have limbs and moved by slithering on the ground or in the water. They were as intelligent as the other races in Kur, yet they were looked down upon. Perhaps it was this shared discrimination that created a tenuous bond between Aule and them. Here, when she waved in greeting as she passed by them and they saw her through the large windscreen, they waved their tails or heads slowly in reply.
When she reached the coordinates given in the message, Aule found the Esteemed Mage slunk against one of the giant roots of the red mangrove tree. The human sat in the low water —filled with mud as —and was partly shielded by the green spiny leaves of the palm shrubs at the base of the tree. If there was a metaphor for how humans had come to be regarded in Kur, this was it.
Years ago, before inter-portal relations shut down, humans entering Kur did so at the western border which was a breathtakingly beautiful building laid in gold and emeralds. Now they entered in mud. Aule parked her vehicle as close to the mage as she could without hurting him and lifted herself out through the roof. There was a loud splash as she landed in the water, but the water easily slid off her skin and clothes. She squatted, resting on her haunches before the mage and reached out to shake him, gently because no one knew what these mages were capab
le of.
“Welcome to Kur,” she said when the mage’s eyes flickered open. At first, the mage looked around the surroundings, not quite seeing her. When he finally looked at her, he shot up to his feet, causing Aule to topple off balance.
“I’m so sorry!” the mage exclaimed as he stretched a hand to help Aule up. Aule ignored this and rose to her feet herself.
The mage looked down at his clothes: they were wet and muddy and yet he still attempted dusting down the front with his hands. “Wouldn’t it be great if we had ngunja to change our clothes at will?” he asked.
From the perplexed look on Aule’s face, the mage could tell that his joke did not translate well. Odun looked down at his clothes, they were wet and muddy and yet he still attempted dusting down the front with his hands. “Wouldn’t it be great if we had ngunja to change our clothes at will?” he asked.
From the perplexed look on the Kurian official’s face, he could tell that his joke did not translate well.
“Greetings. I am Odun, from Rin Atlantic,” the Mage bowed in greeting as is his custom.
“Yes, greetings. I am Aule, your official escort and I was told that you’re in a hurry.” Aule replied.
“Indeed, I am,” Odun said.
“This way please.” Aule pointed him towards her watercraft. She frowned at his wet clothes and then at the smooth leather interior of her vehicle. “If you wouldn’t mind, let me.”
She touched his clothes tentatively with her right hand, first the knee length shirt, then the trousers, and in the process absorbed all the wetness. Her father was much more skilled in his sponge-like abilities. After she had absorbed the mage’s wetness, there were still brown spots where the mud stained the indigo of the mage’s clothes, but at least the inside of her craft would be mostly clean.
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