Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  Makami watched as a second tentacle emerged. Another quickly followed. And then another, until there were more than he could count. They pulled and heaved, making their way out of his chest in a constant stream, piling onto the ground before him. When the last of them flowed out of him he fell back, weakened and delirious with pain. As he lay there on his side, he gazed up at the nightmare he had given birth to.

  The many tentacles were part of one being, a monstrosity that was only now rising to its full height, towering high above the remaining witnesses in the deserted alley. Nothing so immense should have been able to come out of his small body, but it had. Its many appendages writhed about, twisting and turning on themselves, burying away whatever lived within the horrid mass. The dead man in its clutches was pulled deep into its fleshy center, disappearing to whatever fate awaited him.

  The smaller man, Matata, seemed to decide he had seen enough. Without a sound he turned, breaking into a run. As if sensing his movement, a tentacle shot towards him, catching him by a leg. He cried out as he went down, his face hitting the ground hard. As he was pulled towards the writhing mass, he tried to grab onto something, but only the dusty street gathered beneath his fingers. Between his bloodied and broken teeth, he began to whimper, calling out a desperate prayer in an unfamiliar language to unfamiliar gods. Makami remained where he lay, listening to the man in pity. He himself had prayed enough in the past weeks for them all—and to no avail. Either the gods did not hear, or they did not listen. He watched as the hungry tentacles enveloped the small man, silencing his cries forever.

  Only the big man was left. He stood there, his weapon dangling uselessly at his side. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open as he stared up at the great monstrosity before him in awe.

  “Are you a god?” he whispered.

  His answer came as the swarm of tentacles came crashing down upon him, burying him within.

  Makami shut his eyes, unwilling to watch any more. He knew he had nothing to fear. Moments from now, the nightmare he had unleashed would return, through the very way it had come. The pain would be so great he would black out. And the symbol on his chest would break apart, returning to the circle of crimson arcs and lines that would again begin their constant movement. That was the way it had happened before. And it was how it would happen again.

  * * *

  The fat man cursed in several mangled tongues as he lifted a long heavy stick, threatening to lash Makami with it. The two chins on his rounded face shook violently, as if joining in their owner’s anger. Makami stepped back quickly, almost overturning a stand laden with earthen pots. He pulled what was left of his shredded clothing about his increasingly gaunt frame, lest it slip, revealing what he so desperately sought to hide. Turning away, he walked back into the bustling crowd of the open market who parted for him—their eyes lingering with disgust.

  He must have looked a sight, barely clothed in filthy rags, the reddish-dirt that passed for soil here caking his brown skin, and once well-coiffed bushy hair now matted into clumps. What he must have smelled like he dared not venture. That had been the sixth time he had been chased away, when all he asked for was work. He would do anything—haul goods, clean animals, even shovel ofal—just so it earned him enough to leave this place. He had thought he would be safe in this drab town of mud-bricked buildings with dust-beaten roads, so small that foreigners more than often outnumbered locals. It was more a way station than a true settlement, a place for caravans and merchants to rest, water their animals and trade for supplies—before they ventured out into the open desert. He had expected to disappear in this isolated place, away from the large cities he had once called home. But the night past had shattered any such hopes.

  He had stumbled from the alley earlier this morning, his chest throbbing in pain, and his head filled with the faces of the three men he had killed. Or the thing inside him had killed. Is there a difference, he condemned himself guiltily. More troubling, they had known about the markings, which seemed impossible. Those that saw the strange lines etched onto his chest never lived long enough to speak of them. Yet these men had known, and they hunted him—claiming they would receive payment for his capture. But who? What madmen would dare seek out such horror and death? He ran a hand across his chest absently, where beneath his torn shirt he could feel the markings gliding beneath his skin. He had no answers to these questions, but he had to keep moving, until he could not be found by friend or foe. It was better for him that way; it was better for everyone.

  A familiar sound caught his ear, faint chanting and the beating of nearby drums. Curious he followed it, turning several corners until coming to an open clearing. There, in the center of a gathered crowd, atop a raised platform, several men pounded out powerful rhythms with their palms on ornately carved wooden drums. The instruments were slung across their bare chests, hanging at their sides where their palms could reach. Bright golden kilts embroidered with patterns hung from their waists to past their knees, offering a stark but fitting contrast to their dark bodies. Beside them were other men, these however covered in voluminous but equally brilliant colored cloth. They sat strumming and plucking their fingers across the strings of wooden instruments. But more captivating was the figure before them.

  A woman stood in front of the drummers, dancing to beats with such ease and grace it seemed they had been created for no other purpose. Chest bare like the men that accompanied her, she wore only a girdle of beads and shells that covered her wide hips down to the top of her thighs. Muscles flexed and tensed across her coffee-colored frame as she swayed and shook, beads of sweat causing her oiled skin to glisten in the mid-morning sun. Her ornate hair was arranged in thick coils, held in place by rounded bits of gold. As she danced, she sang loudly in some faraway tongue, calling to the drummers who responded back with their own chants. Small metal balls attached to her wrists and ankles rattled in accompaniment to her every move, blending into the music.

  Makami watched entranced. The drums and dance reminded him of his own homeland, that he had left so long ago. No wonder they called to him. But even more so, the woman and her dance evoked other memories. Kesse.

  He closed his eyes, swaying slightly as a rare bit of peace settled over him. Beautiful Kesse, whose rich laughter always tickled his ears. Kesse who would sing softly and dance for him in the morning as the sun crept into their room. How he loved to watch her hips sway, drinking in the way her ample backside jiggled as she glanced back and smiled brightly. How he loved to nuzzle his nose in her bushy hair, or trace his fingers across her mahogany skin as she slept beside him. Kesse, who had been his life, who was now forever gone. Dead.

  The reality of that one word crashed in on him, banishing the fleeting moment of happiness. His eyes flew open, and he was struck with such deep anguish any other pain dulled in comparison. He would have cried, but there were no tears left to fall.

  The drums suddenly hushed, and the dancing woman went into a still pose lifting her arms high. The gathered crowd erupted into cheers and applause, many throwing tiny sacks, most likely filled with gold dust or other valuables towards the entertainers. Armed men with swords and spears kept the delighted onlookers at bay, while smaller children rushed out to collect the tributes of praise from the ground. A tall man wrapped in rich cloth that barely hid his fat belly lifted a staff and cried out praise for his performers, urging the crowd to shower them with more gifts—to which they obliged.

  “You have a fine ear.”

  It took a moment for Makami to realize the nearby voice was meant for him. He had become so accustomed to disgusted stares and curses; he did not expect conversation. A man walked towards him, a bright smile showing beneath a starkly white beard that adorned his brown face. Hands clasped behind his back, his belly surged before him, as if trying to escape the white shirt beneath his long indigo robes. He came to stand before Makami, a gleam in his dark eyes.

  “I was remarking on your ear for music,” he said. Rather short and squat, he had to
look up to meet Makami’s gaze. “The way you swayed, your eyes closed, as if you could feel it more than the rest of us.”

  Makami didn’t answer. He felt more than this old man could possibly know.

  “Would you care to join me at my tent?” the strange figure asked. “I am returning for mid-morning meal. I have more than enough to spare.”

  Makami frowned now. This man was dressed well, not richly, but good enough to be a merchant or a trader. Why would he invite some filthy beggar from the streets to dine with him? He was suddenly gripped by fear, a hand clutching at his chest. Those men last night were to deliver him to someone. Could this be their paymaster? He stepped back slightly, eyes seeking a place to run. The old man must have noticed his alarm, for he lifted his hands in what was a common means of apology in these lands.

  “The goddess burn my thick scalp,” he admonished himself. “You must think me a rude old fool.” He palmed his forehead before releasing it, nodding slightly. “Manhada, I am Master Dawan ag Amanani, of Kel Zinda. I offer you food and drink if you would have it, and do so in peace, under the sacred blessed goddess.” He stopped and offered a smile. “Charity is favored by the goddess. And you look as more worthy company than these other men—whose tongues seem only gifted at haggling.”

  Makami took a pause to look the man over. The greeting was familiar to him—a ritual of the Amazi people, the desert-born—nomads who traversed the sands. Food and drink were offerings of peace, and were taken seriously, demanding that no harm would come to him under penalty of invoking the wrath of their gods. There was little safer oath he could ask for. As his stomach growled noisily, feeling as if it were folding in on itself, he found himself nodding—casting aside his inner doubts.

  * * *

  It was sometime later Makami sat upon the colorful and richly decorative rug, shielded from the hot sun outside a large tent, rubbing his sated belly in content. It had taken all his self-control not to ravenously devour all the food placed before him. Manners had forced him to eat gingerly. Still, he had turned away nothing offered and left the earthen plates piled and empty where he sat. He had nodded along, listening to his host talk—and the old man certainly talked a lot.

  Master Dawan, as he had rightly guessed, was a trader. He bartered everything from fine fabrics to oils, making at least two trips each long season across the desert. Nearby his tents, were at least four baushanga—great shaggy beasts larger than oxen with curving blue horns. They were slow and lumbering, but their hardiness made them the preferred pack animals of desert traders.

  Now an elder man, Master Dawan claimed he had not spent his entire life in the desert. And that when he was as young as Makami, he had traversed far and wide, seeing and hearing of many wondrous things—from giant water serpents that lived beneath the seas, to creatures that were part men and part hyena, who roamed the scorched grasslands. Some things made Makami’s eyebrows rise, like the people who worshipped the many-handed god who it was said stood upon a great stool that rotated even as he spun, forever laughing at some great joke, which kept the world turning with him. Other stories however, like the one related to Master Dawan by a fellow trader, of lands beyond the known world, where white sand that was cold to the touch covered everything, and men with skin like a pig’s belly and adorned with golden hair draped themselves in thick furs, riding into battle covered in heavy metal and armed with broad steel blades, was simply too much to believe.

  “And this is a feather from the great bird I spoke of,” Master Dawan said, “that lives high in the mountains of the East—so large it could snatch away a man.” He passed the giant grey feather speckled with bits of red to Makami. The thing was easily as long as he was tall. He ran a hand across the long soft fibers, feeling the hollow quill beneath.

  “Ah, more tea?” Master Dawan offered. One of his daughters had come to pour more of the warm liquid into small rounded cups of polished stone at their feet.

  Master Dawan had several daughters, six so far Makami had counted, and there was a seventh out at market. All were fairly young, ranging in ages close to nearing the cusp of womanhood. At least four wore two long braids that fell forward at the right sides their heads, red and black beads adorning them, while tinges of indigo stained their lips—signs among the desert people that each would soon be ready for marriage.

  As the girl knelt in front of them, mixing goat milk into his tea, Makami smiled and nodded thanks. She only regarded him coolly behind dark eyes surrounded by lines of black ink. That was the usual response he received from each of Master Dawan’s daughters, who frowned or glared at him with open displeasure. It seemed they did not share their father’s charity to seeming beggars—but they held their tongues as well as their noses.

  Like most desert people, Master Dawan’s daughters displayed a range of skin—varying from their father in either direction. The blessings of three wives, the old man had called them, all now gone—two lost to childbirth and one to the desert. Like her sisters this daughter was dressed in long robes of dark indigo that flowed down to her sandaled feet. Jewelry of crafted copper, silver and colorful stone adorned her everywhere, even tying into her lengthy braided hair. Most noticeable however were the markings. On her hands, arms, even her feet, were intricate designs and patterns etched in dark ink. The artistry was superb. But unlike his, these did not move. In all the fantastic tales Master Dawan had related, none came close to describing his curse.

  “Beautiful yes?” the old man said, catching his gaze. “The work of my eldest daughter. She is quite gifted.” He paused. “So, then friend Anseh,” Master Dawan continued. “I have spoken at such length I have not heard your tales.

  Makami took a deep sip from his tea. Anseh was his real name, from his people, the one he had been given. Whoever hunted him here, only knew Makami, the name he had taken for himself in these lands. After the past night, he had decided it was best he was Anseh once more.

  “I am afraid my tales are not as grand, Master Dawan.” Makami did not flinch at his own lie. The horrors he had seen could compete with the best stories.

  “Where do you come from then?” Master Dawan pressed. “You speak the trader’s tongue well, but your speech marks you as a man of the south.”

  Makami nodded, impressed with the old man’s perceptiveness. “Far south, yes. But I have lived much of my life in the great cities of the west.”

  “Ah!” the old man said with a knowing wink. “That explains your love of music! Some of the sweetest sounds to grace my ears have flowed from those lands.”

  Makami nodded. “In the city of Jenna, I stood in attendance to the funeral of the late king. A hundred bards who played three-necked koras, a hundred drummers and a hundred more musicians and singers marched in procession as the king journeyed through the city, laid upon a bed of gold so heavy, that it was pulled by twenty stout war-bulls of purest white, their great horns too wrapped in sheets of gold. As he passed, the drummers struck their instruments in unison, while jombari players strummed gracefully, and the bards cried out so haunting a song, that the very sky opened and wept in mourning.”

  Master Dawan listened, rapt by the tale. Sitting back, he released a breath of awe. Turning back to Makami, he looked him over with a wistful expression. “I say these words not as insult friend Anseh, but for one who has seen such wonders, you now seem overcome by misfortune.”

  If it would not sound so bitter, Makami would have laughed aloud. Instead, he merely nodded.

  “Well misfortune can be met with fortune,” Master Dawan said. “Soon, before the rains begin, my daughters and I will journey across the sands to the east lands. If it pleases you, join us.”

  Makami looked at the man in surprise, taken aback.

  “I can offer food and drink once more, but for so long a journey I shall expect you to work,” he said sternly, “—and listen to my tales.” At this he gave a smile and wink.

  Makami smiled back. Perhaps his misfortune was easing, if only slightly. He opened his mouth
to speak but was cut off as a sudden blur of feathers streaked past his vision. It was a bird—a large hawk. As Master Dawan held up a hand, it landed on a stretch of leather that covered the old man’s arm, extending its bright blue wings wide before folding them against its golden breast.

  “Ah Izri!” Master Dawan greeted the bird brightly. “I trust you have brought my eldest daughter safely back from market.”

  The way the old man spoke to the hawk, Makami half-expected it to answer. Instead it turned its gold crested head before again stretching its massive wings, taking off in a flapping blur and soaring straight towards an approaching figure.

  Master Dawan clapped in delight. “Praise you Kahya! You have trained him well!”

  The approaching figure didn’t answer immediately, dark piercing eyes passing over Master Dawan, and then Makami. A free hand moved to the dark veil which covered the figure’s face, pulling it down to reveal a surprising sight—a woman. Dressed as she was in dust-ridden flowing trousers and a billowing shirt, she was easily mistaken for a man.

  “He is your bird father,” she said, thick black hair spilling down to her shoulders as she pushed back a hooded shawl. “I do not see why I must take him with me each morning.” With a series of clicks and whistles she lifted her arm and the hawk flew away, this time landing atop a wooden stand that stood beneath their covering. It perched there, gazing down at them.

  “To watch over you dear Kahya. I trust Izri’s eyes as well as my own.”

  The woman grunted and made a face, dropping down to sit cross-legged with them. “I handle myself well enough.” She poured herself some tea, sipping it slowly before turning a piercing gaze to Makami. “Another stray?” Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. “Can you at least choose one who wears more than rags and smells better than a wet baushanga?”

  “Ah this is friend Anseh,” Master Dawan said, wincing slightly at his daughter’s sharp remarks, “a traveler who has fallen on ill fortune. I have offered him food and drink for work, from now through the crossing of the sands.” Makami opened his mouth to make his own introductions, but the woman abruptly turned away.