Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  While Sangara pondered his new surroundings, the escorting mist whipped and surged as it slowly emptied out of the grotto, leaving him to discover new horrors.

  Stone hewed braziers sparked to life, shining dim dancing flames of a ghastly-lit arena. A better look at the walls confirmed his suspicions that the cavities were indeed burrows, constructed without rhyme or reason in placement and design, as though great rats had chewed out their homes in the granite flesh of this fetid prison. His eyes descended the burrowed wall, taking notice of the foul ichor that stained the edges and pool at the base. The length of the wall was covered with mounds of the meaty bones and skulls of men, which lay strewn about him, peppering every darkened corner and lighted stretch of the chamber. Mixed into the vile heaps were the torn raiment and ripped corselets of the many foreign nations and tribes. The scarlet soiled robes of Xaftaan nobles bestrewn alongside the silken tunics of haughty Daehans from the faraway south. Mantles of hardy Kajanjuden hunters scattered among the ripped mail coats of Manden and Asuah heroes. Sangara also spied the gruesome remains of the base and fierce thunder-stone mandrills—-the gongberous. But the Sacred Songs declared them driven into the far north by the “Mighty Seven”. Few were ever seen alive within the borders of the Seven Cities, entering mostly as the pelts and odd ornaments of lucky Sonkoden hunters.

  A thunderous roar rocked the burrowed depths, shaking Sangara out of his trance. Then a hundred more roars broke out from the multi-laired walls as he drew his notched blade. At that moment, the hall sprang to life as the hideous forms of the gongberous bounded onto the flat surface of their feasting hall, crushing bones and skulls underfoot.

  The lusty vigor of his tribe hummed within his heart as he witnessed the ancient foes of men gather before him. If he was to fall in battle then he swore to give a heroic account of himself; one sword-borne Bouran against a hundred fanged horrors.

  The growing multitudes slowly advanced, with deep-throated growls as stone-clubs scraped the littered ground, backing Sangara slowly away from the crescent shaped advance. His eyes darted across the grim visage looking for first blood, but they abruptly halted and grudgingly lopped back on their bow-legged feet. He took notice of the fear and reverence displayed from their snarling snouts and this change in nature gave Sangara a morbid sense of hope. Perhaps they heeded his ferocious carriage. However, as they retreated, they looked past and over him, causing him to turn and glare at the cause of the recoiling horde.

  A massive gongberou lumbered from the shadows dripping foam from its ghastly snout. The brute stood three spears tall from foot to crest with the stained bones of both men and beast covered its barreled chest and the skulls of its valiant meals decorated its waist with a leather strap. Graying fur covered bulging forearms and legs as its snout glistened black as its violent eyes. Two sabered fangs flanked a blood-besmeared beard. Bow-muscled trunks held it upright and heavy arms carried grim-nailed paws, which could easily tear Sangara asunder.

  “Would you rather exchange wanton blows with the gongberou brood? Aye, man-boy” chimed the phantom voice.

  Sangara raised his sword and with the radiance of courage charged the towering dread. A great bellow lanced from its maw as the distance closed between Sangara and its rushing outstretched mitts. Hairy paws grasped Sangara’s taut limbs with ravenous intent and carried him straight to its gapping jaws. Sangara, seeing his head dart towards flashing fangs, swung his lower body back, kicking both his legs skyward; driving its lower jaw shut. And in a fit of pain, tossed Sangara aside, sending him against the far wall.

  Sangara staggered to his feet from the death-dealing impact. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard the brutish throng jostle and howl with disquieting excitement. His body ached and the thought of broken ribs creased his brow. He watched his towering foe turn and charge looking to grab him once more. Sangara, with no time to think, bounded towards it, sidestepping the extended grappling talons and cut deep into its forearm, slicing through fur and tissue. Its bloodied arm swung a frenzied mallet of hard flesh grazing Sangara in the back of his skull, sliding him across the littered floor into a pile of meat-rotting bones. The beast’s agonizing roar agitated the on-looking crowd as their king bled from its torn forearm. Raising himself on his elbows, Sangara saw the agile behemoth bearing down on him; its’ left paw descending to smash his skull into a wet pulp. Quickly, he raised high his sword point and buried the ridged blade deep into its fleshy palm delivering a crippling blow. A great howl rocked the cavern walls as the full length of Manden steel sank deep within its arm severing tendon and sinew from wrist to elbow. Sangara quickly twisted the blade causing it to violently withdraw its damaged arm with a metallic sucking sound and showering him in grisly black juice.

  The air shook with barks and the violent smashing of stone-clubs as the gongberou chief, crippled by the cold magic of men, twisted and screamed to its knees. Sangara rushed over to the kneeling foe, his sword buzzing with a mighty sweep, slicing muscle and bone, and sent the giant head into the air onto a pile of welcoming bones and grinning skulls.

  The grisly hall fell silent as the feral horde retreated into the recesses of their holes. Black glaring eyes spat curses as they left the headless mound of fur and blood with the victor.

  * * *

  Sangara’s sagging limbs succumbed to the weight of fatigue and exertion as he lay against the wall feeling his rib’s painful strike. Thoughts of his father and clansmen in battle with the reavers surfaced in his mind as blood spilled from his mouth. What is happening to them? Is the battle over or does it still rage? Does Da Boura suffer or do they conquer? There was no time to think about it before, but now he wondered and the desire to return gnawed from within.

  “Yes, yes, you deserve a rest from your ordeal,” crooned the eerie voice.

  Sangara looked up, recognizing the voice was in front of him. He beheld a tall shape of a man. Though age had grayed his unruly locks, he stood as tall and lean as any man of Xaftaan, with magic and wonder dancing in his eyes.

  “What of my clan brothers, woliyo?” Asked Sangara, blood drooling from his lips. “Do they prevail or suffer defeat? Does my father look for me among the dead or does he lay with them?”

  “The conflict rages on,” replied the wizard. And with his frail form veiling great vigor lifted Sangara, and brought him over to a hidden fountain. “But of its present stage I cannot say. Perhaps they prevail, but only the gods can tell. Come and restore your strength.”

  They approached a graven ox head jutting out of the course, rocky surroundings. Its recurved horns and massive head bore smooth and seamless details cleanly cut from the surrounding granite. A golden ring looping through its flaring nostrils. Water of magnificent clarity spouted from its bellowing mouth. Beside it stood a great, black eagle with a high crest crowning its head. It eyed the wizard as he approached with Sangara in tow.

  “What is your name man-child?” asked the wizard.

  “I am Sangara Aarn-Toura, son of Daan Binoudjan-Toura and great-grandson of Hadang Dafee-Toura”, answered Sangara.

  “Ha! Your name is still shorter than mine,” laughed the wizard, “I am Youssou Ousman Ganaar Diop, Grand Woliyo to Buur Antu Lamin and Buur Idrissa Gancax, Reaper of the Striped-Wolf Horde, and the Destroyer of Chief Saikou Simbene,” proclaimed the wizard, “as well as the keeper of ‘the Fountains of Farro.’”

  “You lie old man!” cried Sangara through gritted teeth. “Buur Antu Lamin and Buur Idrissa Gancax are bone-dust legends. No man lives so long.”

  The eagle shrieked a jest bringing the ancient sorcerer to a haunting chuckle.

  “Yes, the gods do seem to play more tricks than before. These new heroes are less courteous,” said Youssou, leaning Sangara against the fountain basin. “Boy! I am not bound to the mortal constraints of time. I have traveled beyond and within, through veil and dust, where gods bow and men fear to tread. Where lies find truth and truth twists into oblivion. Now, drink!”

  Sangara looked into the ripp
ling pool and wondered what the effects would be.

  “Before I drink. What is this?” inquired the young warrior.

  “I will promise to tell you,” answered the Youssou as his long fingers delicately caressed the great bird. “After you drink.”

  Sangara took a deep breath and drank from the basin, cleaning his mouth of bloody spit. Almost immediately, the pain in his ribs subsided and powerful thighs erected his muscular body. He felt the strength of a Djeran bull flood his body with magnificent might, arousing him, puffing his deep chest with lean sinew.

  “Yesss, yesss,” smiled Youssou. “This be the Fountain of Fear. The ‘Waters of Iron’ which bestows strength to those who have survived the second ordeal. Witness the powers awaken your form and heal your wounds. And the great eagle-head fount was the Fountain of Tuur. The one that has poisoned you with the ‘Waters of Fire’, fore a lesser man would have fallen on his sword than seek death in battle when the beasts gathered about you. These are the gifts to which you have earned Sangara of the Touras.”

  Mighty black wings stretched out blotting the base of the wall behind him and a majestic cry resonated throughout the cavernous enclosure. At the spectacle’s conclusion, its wings folded back revealing a yawning tunnel mouth. Sangara knew it was not there before and no mist came to greet him, just the lean figure of the wizard calling him to follow. But he was no longer worried about the specter of magic that plagued these primordial caverns nor the beast he will be challenged to defeat.

  Entering the mouth behind the wizard, “Ho scoundrel. Will this take me to my father?” asked Sangara, “I have . . .”

  “How ungrateful a whelp,” chided Youssou. “Yes, I will take you to your sire.”

  A few words escaped Youssou’s lips and the corridor glowed with the bewitching mist that brought Sangara to this mountainous mystery.

  Youssou’s ancient words bothered him. Names and places were mentioned that were heard before but only in the praise songs of the djelis of Da Boura and Da Famadjan. Buur Antu Lamin was the King of Xaftaan before the Great War, but a thousand years is long even for the most renowned of woliyos. And the Striped-Wolf Horde was a hundred years before his birth and a continent away. How could this possibly be?

  Sangara never noticed the wings cover the opening as they entered or the darkness creeping slowly behind them.

  * * *

  After a short walk they emerged into a small well-lit chamber adorned with glyphs of unrecognizable design. The carefully crafted motifs along the walls waved and danced in flowing dashes and bold lines, the work of expert hands and cursed minds. A section of the domed ceiling remained bare but for a single ivory orb at its apex. Sangara awed at the construct of this new space. Gone were the disfigured furrows of molten rock and marred stone. This was more like a temple than mountain cave. Time and space seemed to unfold unevenly within the presence of this ancient man and his monstrous omen-bird. Symbols and caricatures spoke to him from some distant past, from the eons of lineage and generations long dead. As he brought himself back to where the wizard stood, two entrances flanked him. At the top of the brilliantly carved arches were round tablets. The one on the right held a warrior-glyph

  and an eagle-glyph on the other.

  His expression suddenly turning grave, Youssou Ousman Ganaar Diop stretched out his arms. Gnarled and ringed fingers peaked out from within his voluminous cotton robe as he exclaimed, “You must choose! The one on the left to your father and the battle without! The other to the final ordeal and that which all men covet!”

  Sangara stared at the two yawning mouths. He thought of the men with whom he rode with; Daan Toura the cheerful giant, the dour chief Sannou of Kindou, the cavalier brothers; FaKoli and Nfansu, and the valiant heroes of Toura, Cisse, and Ba-nde. Though their lives were not his to worry over, he could not help but wonder their fate. Then again, the power that coursed in his veins awakened the desire to know what else was for the taking. What final boon is being offered? He may now speak with the voice of his father, but the curiosity of a child still held sway. He drew his sword and entered the darkened gateway.

  * * *

  A cold breeze blew brushed past him as he walked through the enclosure. A chill ran across his flesh as he felt a foreboding presence seeking his soul and beating life. The beauty of the outer chamber was now absent, replaced by a tight winding cavity without light or smooth surface. Untrodden gravel crunched under Sangara’s weight and the tunnel’s narrowness suffocated him. He was either entering the guts of the mountain or Jahanaba—hell.

  At the exit, he spied another vast chamber. Almost identical to the others, except for the fact that he stood on an unlit tier above the cave floor. The familiar mist covered the floor with its eerie phosphorescent glow that ignited the entire space from top to bottom. He spied a cave to the far left and the fountain to the right. The presence of neither man nor beast could be sensed but he knew an ambush would greet him.

  A set of stone steps led down into the nether level of the great hollow and with sword in hand he descended. His vestments were tattered and bloodstained, his blade notched, resembling a blunted tool than a keen cohort. But his hard-chiseled arms spoke of mighty efforts and crippling strikes. His ears caught the faint clash of steel and chaos, but the cave was empty. He thought to follow the sounds, but as Youssou’s voice seemed everywhere, so were these muffled cries.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the mist faded to a thin sheet carpeting the bottom. The dimming luminescence darkened the corners allowing only the cave and the third fountain to be seen. The floor felt damp and filthy as a muck-swamp or a flooded lowland. The smell of decaying refuse rose from the muddy surface to choke Sangara’s corded throat. He counted thirty paces to the fountain and sixty to the cave. Maybe it leads to the outside or abode of some unimaginable horror. Steadily, he crept backwards toward the fountain, not wanting to be taken from behind. He noticed as he moved further and further away from the cryptic lair the devilish mist pulsated with its pale sickly glow. He judged the distance, concluding the prize of mysterious waters must be behind him. And swiftly turning, came face to face with a pair of burning red eyes and jagged lips murmuring foul words between putrid gasps of air.

  Sangara felt his body convulse and fall back in violent alarm. His feet losing its balance sent him onto the slim and vapor surface. Frantically raising his sword, he saw an old man, back crooked with age, skin leathered with wear, and eyes of sparkling deviltry. His ragged garment hung in the tatters of an ill-fitting tunic and a long cord adorned with massive claws sagged from around his neck. Sangara quickly gauged this new threat with a little humor.

  “I’ve fought a murderous rabble of armed men,” he mused rising from the murky bed, “and triumphed over the chief of the Gongberou. If you be a buwaa, you inspire little fear.”

  The outlandish figure stared intently at the bolstering warrior. Neither smile nor grimace bared itself upon the witch’s stony face. As Sangara stared back, he finally noticed that the fountain, which should have been behind the morbid apparition, was actually the foreboding cave he so gingerly stalked away from. Sangara steadily backed away from this strange phantasm of a man and readied himself for an onslaught.

  The strange man, eyes alight and legs braced began to babble and foam at the lips, violently yanking his long necklace, inhaling and exhaling great quantities of air in heaving gust. The mud and mist shifted and splashed around him as an awful disturbance encircled the ragtag witch. His bent form cracked and stretched into a tall figure of a man, but then his body bloated and expanded as the throat of some swamp toad. Pulsing veins inflated with rushing torrents of blood. Arms and legs widened, and thickened with each heaving gasp as the shapeshifter’s massive torso fell on all fours. A bulky armored tail burst from underneath his browned garment, which shredded as it grew. The once grim face undulated and shuddered as each muscle contorted in such grotesque fashion, causing Sangara’s eyes to squint in disgust. An inhuman bellow rolled out of a now cours
e and warped snout as the grim foeman altered himself into the titanic makasutu, a great croc of the Northern rivers.

  With relenting speed, dagger-like teeth flashed as its maw sprang forward seeking to grab Sangara’s muscled torso. Sangara dodged out of its deadly range, only to find the ground slick and intractable, causing him to skid across the floor from his mammoth foe. The beast charged, and folding its legs along its scaly body and tail, glided toward Sangara with ardent intent. Bracing himself against the wall, Sangara launched himself straight towards the coasting head and with sword held high landed onto its snout, and plunged the blade into its skull. But the blade snapped in two, leaving him with a shattered piece of metal. The great mud-beast violently rocked its grotesquely knotted head back and forth trying to fling Sangara off into the sloppy muck.

  Sangara, wrapping his powerful arms around its head, spied a leathery cord looped around its neck, and with the vigor of purpose wound it tightly around his forearm. The forceful thrashing of its head flung the desperate warrior off, but because he had held the cord, he was too close for it for the teeth to do their deadly work. The beast trashed and whipped as it tried unsuccessfully to dislodge Sangara from the deadly noose. Still grasping the cord, he straddled its massive neck and yanked. Muscle, sinew, and bone strained and bulged as he exerted all the strength his hero-like frame possessed. If he could not break the source of this witch’s power – then he would strangle him with it.

  The ferocity of the struggle smeared them with slime and waste. The buwaa, folding its legs again, set them into a savage death-roll with the hopes of shattering this bane from his lock and delivering him into its jaws. Sangara felt the dizzying pressure of weight and speed push him to the limits of his endurance. If the beast rolls to close to the wall he would be crushed to a gory pulp. The might of Sangara’s knotted arms and legs held him in place and tightened the unbreakable saabou. His biceps curled and strained exerting every muscle in his steel-like grip. A growl of pain escaped his bruised and bloodied lips, as the cord bit into his flesh. Sangara felt the mass underneath him shrink and wiggle with every squeeze and turn of the cord. Slowly, he realized the beast fading in bulk and savagery. Shortly, Sangara was no longer straddling a titan croc, but a limp, old man. His dangling limbs buried in the putrid mist of magic.