Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  “Now breathe,” she told him, her heaving chest pressed against his own, arms now clasped around his back. “Breathe in time to me.” He took a deep breath, following her lead. On his chest, he knew the markings were still moving but slower. He could feel them.

  “That’s it,” she whispered, her breath warm in his ear. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

  Makami found himself matching her rhythm now, drawing and releasing breath. And he did so as long as she urged him. It was well into the late hours of the morning that he drifted off. But when he did, the markings on his chest had ceased moving. And for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, his dreams were not nightmares and he slept in peace.

  * * *

  “Three men. And they come swiftly.”

  Makami took the looking glass from Master Dawan, peering through. It made the objects that appeared as mere dots against the sand in the distance seem close enough to touch. They were three men, their faces veiled. Each rode upon their own mjaasi—a giant sand lizard that could travel the desert at vast speed, and required little water.

  “Blue men?” he asked.

  Master Dawan shook his head. “Blue men would not so easily announce their coming.”

  Blue men, or the Taraga, were strange desert people—some say a lost branch of the Amazi. None knew much of them, except that they dressed in robes of deepest blue, and even covered their skin in the rich dye. They often raided caravans, carrying off goods and people—mostly women, children and young men. Those who had survived their attacks claimed the Blue men merely appeared, as if out of nothingness, and then vanished just as quickly.

  “Whoever they are, they’ve spotted us, and are riding hard in our direction.” Kahya had taken the looking glass and now peered through it as she spoke. “We can’t outrun them. Stop the baushanga. I’d rather we met these strange men with our faces than our backs.”

  Makami nodded. The woman did not even look back at him before she turned to converse with her sisters. It had been some eleven days now since their encounter during the storm. Since then he had shared her tent each night, and they had held each other, as she taught him this skin magic—and how to control the markings upon him. On those nights she was a different person, adventurous, daring—even playful. But in the open day she was just the serious-minded daughter of a trader, and treated him as she always had. He did not think Master Dawan or her sisters knew of their secret meetings. Both had been quite discreet about that.

  Moving off to the baushanga, he pulled on their reins, making the clicking noises of reassurance to stop them. Looking into the distance he could make out the three approaching figures much better now, without the need of the looking glass. They would be upon them in moments.

  “Friend Anseh.” He turned to find Master Dawan standing nearby. “I do not know these men, and every precaution is necessary. I will speak to them in peace, but if that does not work...” The old man reached into his robes and drew out a knife. “Can you use this?”

  Makami took hold of the weapon, noting the intricate golden hilt and the sharp gleaming curved blade. With dexterous agility, he twirled it across his hand, unsheathing it in a swift display, causing Master Dawan’s eyes to widen slightly.

  “I see then that you can,” the old man said, a bit of excitement in his voice. Makami had a feeling he would one day be asking to hear the tale of how he had learned that ability.

  “Here they come,” Kahya declared, coming to stand beside them.

  Makami looked up to see the three men riding down a dune directly in front of them. The brown and white-striped mjaasi they rode kicked up billowing puffs of sand as they more scampered than ran, their clawed feet barely touching the ground. They brought their riders just up to the caravan, stopping short when the leather reins tied to their necks were pulled. The baushanga shifted slightly at sight of the creatures, eyeing them warily, their normally blue horns changing to a dull orange—a clear warning. Despite their size, mjaasi had small teeth. Exceedingly sharp and numerous, they were better suited for devouring rodents and would not fare well against the tough hide of a baushanga. But the pack beasts didn’t take chances, and would charge with their great horns if these strangers came too close.

  “Manhada,” Master Dawan said, palming his forehead in greeting. “The goddess smile on you with good fortune.”

  The three men did not respond right away, shifting their gaze down to the old man and his caravans. Each was wrapped in dark fabrics that enveloped them completely. With their veiled faces all that could be discerned were their eyes which were unreadable. But there was something odd about the way they sat, so casually upon their steeds, showing none of the caution anyone would at meeting strangers out in the deep desert.

  Finally, one of them, the one whose steed stood closest, began to unwrap his veil. In moments his face was visible, that of a man—the flints of gray in his beard showing he was older certainly than Makami, but younger still than Master Dawan. His broad frame was visible beneath his clothing, matching his large hands. He stared at them all a while longer, his dark eyes piercing. Then quite unexpectedly a bright grin of white teeth crossed his ebon skin.

  “Manhada,” he replied back in greeting, his voice a deep baritone. Palming his own head, where only a strip of hair grew in the middle, he nodded slightly. Makami took note of the man’s accent. He knew the customs of the desert people well enough, but he did not share their dialect. He spoke trader’s tongue impeccably, like someone who was well-traveled. “May the goddess smile upon us all. May she smile on you even more, if you so happen to have water.”

  Master Dawan motioned to one of his daughters who stepped forward. Gingerly, she offered up a leather pouch filled with water. The man looked down from his mount, his smile unwavering. Reaching down he took hold of the pouch and paused. Makami’s hands tensed on his knife, anticipating trouble. But the man only took the pouch with a solemn nod. In moments he was downing its contents, much of it running down his beard and soaking his clothing. His thirst quenched, he tossed what was left to one of his companions, who caught it and began to drink just as heartily.

  “Many thanks,” the man said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I thought we would die with sand in our throats this day.”

  “The sands do not show mercy,” Master Dawan remarked. “What finds you so deep in the desert friend?”

  “My men and I were guarding a caravan. But we lost them in a storm.”

  “A fierce thing,” Master Dawan noted. “It passed over us some nights past.”

  “Most likely one in the same,” the man grunted. “We have not been able to find them since. I fear them perished—as were we until we spied you in the distance. My men and I are hungry, thirsty. Our mounts need feeding as well. If you could spare a bit more to drink, to eat, before we set out—”

  “What can you offer in trade?” It was Kahya that spoke. She had donned her veil once more, her muffled voice and clothing making it hard to discern if she were man or woman. Makami knew she had spoken quickly, lest her father in his generosity offer away the little supplies they held for nothing.

  The man smiled knowingly. Reaching into his robes he took a small pouch and tossed it over. Kahya caught it nimbly, snatching it from the air and opening it, peering inside. Gold dust, Makami could see.

  “A week’s earnings,” the man said. “More than enough I hope.”

  Kahya nodded curtly. The gold dust would resupply them and more at the next trading village.

  “I am Master Dawan,” the old man said warmly, now that such matters were finalized. “And I offer you food and drink friend....?”

  “Abrafo,” the man answered.

  “So, it is then, friend Abrafo,” Master Dawan said. “Night draws near, you may camp with us and we will share food, drink and tales.”

  The man Abrafo gazed down, smiling widely, as if that was what he had been waiting to hear.

  It was well into dusk, as the sun lowered in the horizon, takin
g with it the last shafts of light in the desert that the caravan and their new guests sat in a circle about a fire eating, drinking and talking. Master Dawan’s daughters had slain a goat, preparing enough food for them all, and they sated their bellies. A few of the young women even danced, showing skills at balancing knives and swords atop their heads as they twirled to a rhythm beat upon a flat drum by their father who chanted some unknown song in the Amazi tongue.

  The big man, Abrafo, seemed to delight at this, clapping heartily as he ate, and listening riveted to the tales Master Dawan eagerly spun. Makami sat back, eating his own food slowly, but saying little. The other two strangers—muscular men with rough faces named Cha and Kadori— said even less. Their stone demeanor betrayed nothing but seemed to take in everything at once.

  Something about them did not set right with Makami. More than once he thought they glanced in his direction. But they had looked away so quickly, he began to wonder if it wasn’t his own mind playing tricks. Still despite this seeming calm, he kept his eyes open, the knife Master Dawan had given him tucked away safely beneath his shirt. He hoped he would have no need of it. Kahya did not eat with them, taking her food inside her tent where she claimed to be handling business. In all this time Makami had only seen her a few moments, still veiled and not even looking his way. He wondered to himself if tonight, they would still be able to have one of their lessons.

  “You are blessed with beautiful daughters and fabulous tales Master Dawan,” Abrafo was saying, his rumbling voice filled with mirth as he drank from a wooden bowl. The skin on his powerfully built arms glistened in the fire’s glow. Since settling down the three men had discarded their lengthy cloaks, revealing long loose-fitting trousers and dark shirts. All had weapons strapped to them. Nothing alarming for caravan sentries, but still—it made them seem like leopards.

  “Friend Abrafo, you are too kind,” the old man said, graciously accepting the compliment. “But surely, in your work, you have tales to share as well?”

  The big man laughed to himself, sipping again from his cup. He cast a glance to his men, who glanced back. It was such a swift thing that most would not have noticed. But Makami was keeping his eyes on them. In his homeland he had seen leopards hunt often as a child. And they too had a silent way of speaking.

  “Tales I have in great number,” Abrafo said finally. He settled back lazily on one elbow; the cup held before him while a wistful expression stole his face. “Here is one you may find of interest—it is about a thief and a sorcerer.”

  Makami stopped the cup that he was lifting to his own lips, his ears perking to life. Staring at Abrafo the big man did not seem to be looking in his direction, but his words had set Makami’s heart fluttering.

  “There was once a thief,” the big man said, “who lived in a city to the far west, in one of the great kingdoms, between oceans of water and oceans of sand. He was a good thief, whose fame was celebrated on the streets of the city for his daring thefts. One night he decided to increase his fame. He would steal a prized jewel from one of the richest men in the city. What the thief didn’t know was that this man was a sorcerer, and not a man of simple magics or one who you go to for healing. No, this man practiced dark magics, forbidden in the kingdom. He belonged to a secret brotherhood, and they had become quite wealthy dabbling in their terrible practice.”

  Makami’s heart beat so fast now that he thought it might jump from his chest. And for the first time, in some eleven days, the markings on his chest began to move. Since his first lesson with Kahya he had been able to control them, keeping them still while he slept and, in the days, while he worked. But his breathing had become sharp and chaotic listening to the big man’s tale, and what control he had slipped away. This tale was becoming too frightening, too real.

  “That very night,” Abrafo went on, “the sorcerer was working one of his greatest magics—markings etched with blood and ink upon stone. Unknown to him however, a thief had entered his home. The two stumbled upon each other, quite in surprise—the thief thinking that the darkened home was empty, not expecting to find anyone within. Any other day, the sorcerer would have killed an intruder outright. But the magic he dealt in was powerful, and required all his concentration. In that moment of distraction, the sorcerer was seized by the very forces he sought to control and pitched forward—dead.”

  “And what of the thief?” Master Dawan asked, his eyes alive with intrigue.

  “Well that is where the story gets interesting,” Abrafo said with a wink. “The sorcerer died, but his magic did not. You see the thief himself could wield magic—a deep and old magic that rested within his skin. And magic, good or ill, is attracted to magic—it seeks it out, is drawn to it. The dark magics of the sorcerer came alive at sensing him. They left the stone they had been etched upon, latching onto this thief, burying into him, marking his skin.”

  Makami glared openly. So, this man knew his story, knew it in detail that no one else could, and now gave answers that he himself could only have guessed upon. He still remembered that terrible night, standing with the dead sorcerer at his feet, watching as the strange markings etched onto the ground had slithered across stone, seeping into his skin, crawling up his body and embedding into his chest. The pain had been so great, he had almost passed out. Only fear had kept him awake long enough, to flee into the night and back home....

  “But the unlucky thief didn’t know what had happened to him,” Abrafo continued. “You see the sorcerer had been creating doors with those markings, symbols that opened pathways to other worlds where unknown things dwell—demons and dark spirits. The unsuspecting thief returned home; this wicked magic buried into his skin. And there he fell into a deep sleep. But the magic worked upon him yet stirred. That very night as he slept, the markings upon his chest opened a door, releasing a monstrous demon that killed his wife, who herself was with child. When he awakened the room, he slept in was covered in her blood. Some say the thief went mad that night, and fled the city, forever running from the monster he had become.”

  Makami released a sob, the tears he had tried to hold back choking him. Images of sweet Kesse flashed through his mind, and the events of that terrible night. The man knew much, more than Makami ever did—but not everything. He had not awakened to find Kesse dead; he had awakened to see it happen. He had watched as the terrible thing with endless arms, bristling with black hair, had emerged from his chest. He had watched it grab onto Kesse, and seen her wide terrified eyes as the monster ripped her to pieces. And he had been too weak to stop any of it. He had indeed gone a bit mad that night. But if these men still sought him, knowing all they did, they were madder than he.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice matching the resignation on his face.

  The big man Abrafo slowly finished draining his cup before turning to Makami, a slow smile spreading across his face. “So, the thief finally speaks.”

  Makami did not reply. Casting eyes to the two other men, he could see they now stared at him openly. No, it had not been his imagination after all. Leopards these men were—and eager to hunt. Turning back to their leader he released a weary sigh.

  “Whatever you want, whatever you think you’ll get from me—there will only be death in the end. You have come all this way, for nothing. Go now, please.”

  Abrafo only returned a wider smile. Master Dawan frowned deeply, looking from Makami to their new guests in puzzlement, trying to fit the pieces together in his head. The old man may not have yet understood what was going on, but he could certainly sense the dangerous tension that now filled the night air.

  “It is not about what we want friend thief,” Abrafo replied calmly. “Your fate is not ours to decide.” He paused. “Take him.”

  At least that’s what Makami imagined had been said, because the big man spoke his last words in an unfamiliar tongue. But his leopards pounced at his command. They were upon him so quickly there was barely time to react. Strong hands grabbed and wrestled him to his knees. The knife he ha
d held was twisted from him, skittering onto the sand, as a longer sharper blade was placed to his neck. About him Master Dawan’s cries of protest mingled with his daughters screams. Then suddenly, there was a cry of pain.

  Makami looked from the side of his vision to see Kahya, unveiled and wielding her large blade. The commotion had drawn the woman from the tent and she had emerged, weapon at the ready. One of the men that had held him down clutched at his arm, cursing at the blood that seeped through his clothing. Kahya moved towards him again, deadly intent her eyes. But the leopard was faster. He slid out of her way, and with his good arm caught her by the wrist, wrenching it cruelly until she cried out and released her grip. A quick blow to the woman’s side seemed to take her breath, and she doubled over in agony, the fight momentarily gone from her.

  “There’s no time for this,” Abrafo growled in annoyance. He grabbed Kahya, tossing her towards her family and drawing a large sword with a jagged end which he held menacingly. “As we planned! Hurry!”

  Makami watched the chaos about him unfold, lost in a void of pain. The markings on his chest had begun to move long ago, rising with his own fear, and they burned with an intensity that threatened to overwhelm him. He barely noticed as his shirt was ripped away, or when a hand touched his chest, slathering on something cold and liquid. And then, quite unexpectedly, the pain diminished. It ebbed away, all but vanishing. Soon, he could feel nothing at all.

  Makami looked down to his chest in surprise, to where two strange markings in red had been freshly painted, still dripping from him like cold blood. Whatever the symbols were, they numbed his skin, making it feel as if cold needles were prickling him. The markings on his chest slowed their rhythm and then went still.

  “Good then,” Abrafo said, his toothy smile returning. He looked down to Makami and winked. “You see, we have our magics as well. Weak yes, but enough to keep us all safe.”

  Makami stared at his chest, dumbfounded. Looking back to his captors he glared at them. Men who not only hunted him, but who knew how to subdue him. These leopards had been well-prepared.