Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  But the warrior did not pass judgment on these strangers. Instead, a familiar stirring rose from deep within him, and he knew he would not rest until that stirring was satisfied. Something is wrong here, he thought. And I am needed to make it right.

  “Yet again,” he said aloud.

  The warrior climbed to his feet and quickly descended the escarpment. When he reached the ground, he followed the trail of the disconsolate herders, who had now passed from sight.

  * * *

  Desultory nods and mutters greeted the members of the Nubala contingent as they returned to their dwellings. It was always thus on Gifting Day, the time during which the Nubala of the east were obliged to honor their longstanding agreement with the Jijiwi of the west. Inevitability did not diminish the resentment and rancor that accompanied the giving.

  “They ask for more every rain,” grumbled Achok, who strode at the front of the unhappy procession, alongside his uncle Tuatat, who was the wachik, or head, of the various Nubala clans.

  Receiving no reply from Tuatat, Achok continued: “If their demands increase, one day there will be nothing left of us.”

  Tuatat paused and glared at the younger man.

  “Perhaps you will be Champion someday,” the wachik said. “Perhaps you will be the one who saves us all.”

  Those words caused Achok to lower his gaze and fall silent. Both men were tall, lean, and dark as the wood of the ebony tree. Like all Nubala, they wore nothing but cow-hide loin pouches and a few strings of multi-colored beads. Yet they could not be considered as truly naked. For nearly every inch of their bodies, from their toes to their shaven pates, was bedecked with tiny dots of flesh that poked from beneath their skin, giving it a vaguely reptilian appearance. The marks, which were called mbama, honored Besu Jusa, the Rock Lizard, which the Nubala believed to be their guardian spirit.

  Though the Nubala women wore no more clothing than the men, they did not share the practice of shaving their heads. Instead, they grew their hair in tight rows and plaits, threaded with beads, wire, and ornaments of wood and bone. Like the men, their skin carried the marks of Besu Jusa. Only pre-pubescent children went smooth-skinned. The markings, which were created by placing bits of ash beneath tiny cuts in the skin, were the culmination of the many rituals that ushered the Nubala from childhood to adulthood.

  “Hiyee! “Hiyoo!” the children shouted as they rushed to greet the men who had returned from the borderland. Even though they knew they could someday become part of the Gift to the Jijiwi after they received their skin-marks, the children’s exuberance could not be contained by forebodings of the future.

  The women and men were more reserved in demeanor. But the greetings of the children were so spontaneous that Tuatat, Achok, and the others with them were able, if only for a moment, to allow their gloom to lift.

  Tuatat smiled as he held the children who happily gripped his legs and waist. His eyes caught and found those of his wife and daughter. He knew they were glad to see him, despite the reality that so many Nubala had gone to the borderland, and few had returned.

  Thus far, his family had been spared from becoming part of the Gift. He also knew their luck would eventually desert them, as it had for all the Children of Besu Jusa many rains in the past ...

  His gaze wandered to the pastures of the Nubala cattle and the fields of grain that grew beyond the grazing-land, and the sun-sheened lakes that provided the water his people needed. He looked at the thatch-topped clay cylinders that were the dwellings of the Nubala, perched amid the spires of rock that had served as a natural defense for his people since the time their ancestors arrived in this land.

  Then Tuatat focused on a lone Nubala man who was laboriously lifting boulders and lowering them back to the ground. The rows of mbama-marks that covered his skin could not conceal the muscles that bunched and knotted as the man grimly applied himself to his task.

  Tuatat made no attempt to catch the man’s attention. Better to allow him to focus on his rock-lifting.

  I do not envy you, Guguk, the wachik thought. Then a shout interrupted his grim musings.

  “Tuatat!” cried one of the watchers who guarded the approaches to the Nubala dwellings. “Someone is coming!”

  Tuatat turned to the sentinel, who was slightly out of breath from his rapid running.

  Have they decided, at last, to break the Accord? the wachik thought darkly. Already, some of the men were snatching up iron-bladed spears.

  “Is it the Jijiwi?” Tuatat demanded, his tone tense.

  “No,” the sentinel responded. “It is one man – a man who is not like us, and not like the Jijiwi.”

  “One man,” Tuatat repeated. He was not reassured.

  A boy pressed a spear-shaft into Tuatat’s hand. Like the others who had accompanied the Gift, he had gone weaponless to the border, as the Accord stipulated. He had slain leopards and cattle-raiders with the spear he now held. Though he did not doubt that he could kill a lone foe, he wondered what a stranger could be doing in a land that had remained remote for such a long time.

  The Nubala men gathered quickly at Tuatat’s side. They were warriors now, freed from the constraints of the Accord. Like the teeth of a crocodile, their spears pointed outward – none steadier-handed than that of Guguk, the hard-muscled lifter of boulders.

  With deceptive speed, the outlander approached. He had been loping, but now that he was within sight of the Nubala, his pace slowed to a walk. He was close enough that the Nubala could see that he was, indeed, unlike them or the Jijiwi. His umber skin was not as dark as the Nubalas’, but it was darker than that of the camel-riders. His broad features were not as blunt as those of the Nubala, but they were fuller than the Jijiwis’. Unlike Nubala men, this one’s head was not shaven. His black hair covered his skull like a wooly helmet.

  The stranger’s only garment was the skin of a lion wrapped around his waist. His height and hard-muscled breadth surpassed even that of Guguk. His weapons were a huge, straight sword and a long dagger, both belted across his garment. He kept his hands away from both weapons.

  He stopped a few paces from the gathered Nubala. He was the first to break the stiff silence.

  “Who are you?” the stranger asked. His words were barely understandable to the Nubala.

  “We are the Nubala,” the wachik said in response. “I am Tuatat. Who are you, outlander?”

  “Imaro,” the stranger replied.

  * * *

  The warrior waited for the usual reactions to the sound of his name: fear, awe, uncertainty, incredulity, desperation. But he saw none of those emotions on the faces of the Nubala. All he saw was curiosity, as well as the apprehension that was to be expected from an isolated people meeting an outlander.

  At last, Imaro thought. I have finally come among people who do not know who I am ...

  “Where do you come from . . . Imaro?” Tuatat asked. “And why are you in our land?”

  Imaro struggled to make out all of Tuatat’s words. When the warrior had first spoken, he had used a trade-tongue common among the people closest to this far-off country. He had hoped that the herders’ speech was similar. He now understood that the languages were related, but distantly so.

  “I come from ... beyond,” the warrior said, gesturing toward the escarpment to the south. “I am here because of . . . what I saw.”

  Tuatat and Achok exchanged puzzled glances.

  “What do you mean by that, outlander?” Tuatat demanded.

  Imaro countered with a question of his own.

  “Is this land your country, or does it belong to the ones who took your cattle and young people?”

  Despite the warrior’s imperfect command of their language, the Nubala bristled at the implication of his words. Scowls appeared on many faces, and hands tightened on spear-shafts. In response, Imaro’s hands moved closer to the hilts of his sword and dagger.

  Tuatat remained calm, even though the outlander’s words and tone stung him as much as they had the other Nubal
a. Even so, he kept his spear-point aimed at the smooth-skinned stranger’s abdomen as he answered the question.

  “All of the land between the Demons’ Smoke and the Wall Rocks is called Muyum, outlander,” the wachik said. “We Nubala have our part, and the Jijiwi – the robed ones – have theirs. And you still have not told us why you have come here ... Imaro.”

  Tuatat had gestured toward Motoni when he said “Demons’ Smoke,” and at the escarpment when he said “Wall Rocks.” Imaro took the remoteness of Muyum into account as he spoke.

  “There are many lands south of the High Rocks, Tuatat,” he said. “Many people, many ways – much of which I have seen. I have seen others who herd cattle. I, myself, once did so.”

  He paused, looking in turn at Tuatat, Achok, Guguk and the others. They saw appraisal in that gaze, as well as a touch of disapproval.

  “And in all the places I have been,” the warrior continued, “I have never seen herders who would give away their cattle and people, and receive nothing in return. Never ... until now. And I wonder what the reason for this could be.”

  From the darkening expressions on the Nubalas’ faces, Imaro realized that the implication, if not the details, of his message had struck its mark. He was certain that these people were warriors ... yet warriors did not behave in the manner the Nubala did when he first saw them. Now, they were displaying a modicum of who they truly were. His only concern was that they might be tempted to vent their shame and anger on him. If so, he was prepared.

  “You may have been to many places, outlander,” Tuatat finally said in a truculent tone. “But you know nothing of us.”

  “Tell me, then. I might be able to help you.”

  The Nubala stared incredulously at Imaro, and at each other. Guguk frowned in fury and raised his spear. Tuatat laid his hand on the shaft of the weapon and shook his head. Even as the others muttered in low tones, the wachik’s thoughts swirled in many directions.

  How could this stranger be of help to us? he wondered. Did Besu Jusa send him to us, after abandoning us for so long? Is our suffering about to come to an end?

  “Will you wait?” Tuatat asked Imaro.

  The warrior nodded. Without leaving anyone behind to prevent the stranger from departing, the group of Nubala walked out of earshot. Then they engaged in a loud, animated discussion, with many glances and gestures directed toward Imaro, who abided patiently.

  At last, the conversation ended, and Tuatat approached Imaro as the others stayed behind.

  “Come with us, outlander,” he said. “Come, listen, and learn.”

  * * *

  The rocks of Tuatat’s clan were crowded, for many people from other clans had come to take part in the Gifting ceremony. All the Nubala present – men and women, old and young, from near and far – pressed closer to get a better look at the stranger who had come among them. The air hummed with their comments concerning his size and lack of mbama-marks. It was the first time in rains beyond counting that the Nubala had seen anyone, other than the Jijiwi, who was not of their kind.

  For his part, Imaro breathed deeply of a conglomerate aroma he had not experienced since his boyhood: a mixture of the smells of people and cattle, sweat and dung. The people were different. So were the cattle. Imaro’s memories of his former people were less pleasant than those of the cattle he had herded ...

  Curiosity rather than hostility showed on the faces of the Nubala as they gazed at Imaro. Yet he saw resentment and despondency as well. He guessed that those negative emotions were not directed at him. Their target had to be the white-robed people who had sneered and laughed while claiming their tribute of cattle and captives.

  When the procession reached the rock spires, amid which the Nubalas’ dwellings perched like the nests of birds, Tuatat signaled for silence. Then he introduced the outlander.

  “This is Imaro, a man from afar,” the wachik said. “He is our guest, and will be treated as though he is of our clans.”

  “The people of our clans bear mbama-marks,” said Guguk, who stood near Imaro and Tuatat. “This one has none.”

  Tuatat frowned in disapproval of Guguk’s incivility, even though some of the Nubala nodded in agreement with Guguk’s words. Imaro had already noticed the disquiet that gripped the big Nubala. Imaro was not yet concerned with direct confrontation. But he knew he needed to defuse the disrespect Guguk’s comment implied – and instigated.

  “I have marks on my skin,” the warrior said quietly. “But they are not like yours.”

  Suddenly, he thrust out both his massive arms. Guguk and Tuatat each took an involuntary step backward, as did the others who stood close to the outlander. However, Imaro made no further move.

  “Look,” he said.

  Cautiously at first, then with curiosity, the Nubala peered at the dark skin of the outlanders’ arms and torso. There, they saw the traces of more than a few scars. Those marks had not been made by incisions of ash beneath his skin. Some had been inflicted by the points and edges of weapons; others could only have been ripped by fangs and claws.

  Because he had been touched by a deity while still in his mother’s womb, Imaro healed more rapidly than other men. Even so, the wounds he had suffered during the long rains of his life had left their signs – both without and within.

  “You are right, outlander,” Guguk said grudgingly as he looked into Imaro’s eyes. “You have marks, even though they are not mbama.”

  “I will speak with Imaro,” Tuatat said. “In my dwelling, with one other – Tiba.”

  The crowd stirred at the mention of that name. Then the people parted, making way for a woman who stood taller than most of the men – and nearly as tall as Imaro himself. As Tiba came closer, Imaro could see that she was slender as the trunk of a palm tree. Only the wrinkles between the dots of her mbama-marks, and the flat sacs of her breasts, provided an indication of her advanced age. Yet she moved as gracefully as any of the girls who had only begun to receive their marks.

  The plaits of Tiba’s hair jingled with more ornaments than those of the other women. That slight excess was the only indication of her status, which rivaled that of Tuatat. For Tiba was the ayake – a combination of healer and diviner – of the Nubala clans. The ayake was the living link between the people and the spirits that surrounded them.

  Tiba gazed deeply into Imaro’s eyes, as though she could see beyond their surface and into his soul. Imaro did not blink under her scrutiny. He wondered if this woman of a people isolated from the rest of Nyumbani for such a long time could, indeed, see who he really was ...

  Abruptly, Tiba nodded. Then she turned and began to climb toward Tuatat’s dwelling, using shallow hand-and-footholds carved into the face of the rock. A moment later, Tuatat followed.

  Imaro looked at the indentations. Although he had been raised on a flat savannah, he had learned how to live on other types of terrain: forests, mountains, deserts – even the sea. Fitting his hands and feet with care into the indentations, he followed the two Nubala upward.

  * * *

  Golden sunlight poured through the circular entrance to Tuatat’s dwelling, only to be diffused into semi-darkness. The space inside was deceptively large; more than sufficient to accommodate three people, including one of Imaro’s large size.

  A clay bowl filled with a blend of milk and blood from the Nubalas’ cattle passed among Tiba, Tuatat and their guest. Imaro savored the taste of the pinkish beverage. A similar milk-blood mixture was a mainstay of the Ilyassais’ diet.

  Yet this liquid had not infused the Nubala with the indomitability that flowed through the blood of the Ilyassai. Now, Imaro would learn the reason for what he saw as an anomaly. When the bowl was finally empty, Tiba began to speak. Her eyes were closed, and her voice rose and fell in a singer’s cadence.

  “Know, outlander, that we Nubala were not always as you see us now,” the ayake intoned. “Our ancestors lived far to the south, where grass and water were abundant, and our cattle and dwellings covered the land
. Our warriors were mighty; none could stand before their spears. Our magic was strong; no curse could be cast against us. Our ancestors believed they could live forever in this way, for no other people dared to challenge them.”

  She paused then, and an expression of pain and sorrow crossed her face, although she did not open her eyes.

  “It was not outsiders who defeated our ancestors,” Tiba continued. “Our ancestors defeated themselves. Clans began to envy each other. People of ambition were not satisfied with what they had. Clans began to steal each other’s cattle, which had never happened before. Then our ancestors began to kill each other. The grass turned read with blood. Dwellings burned; hatreds flared. And when the land itself began to quiver in shame for what our ancestors were doing to each other, outlanders came and took it from them.

  “The invaders had waited many rains for their chance to strike. Our ancestors were too divided to stand against the enemies they had defeated in the past. Now, it was our ancestors who were defeated, for they continued to fight against each other even as the invaders stole their land and cattle.”

  Again, Tiba paused – this time for a longer interval. Tuatat did not speak, and neither did Imaro. The warrior had heard similar tales in the past, involving groups ranging from small tribes to great empires. More than once, he had participated in clashes of the kind Tiba described. He would continue to listen, though. For Tiba had not yet told him what he needed to know.

  “The few Nubala who remained alive realized their folly,” the ayake finally said. “But it was far too late. If they remained in the land that was no longer theirs, they faced either death or enslavement. Instead, they chose to flee – to the north, for their enemies’ territory lay to the south.

  “Their wandering continued for many rains. The places they found were either barren, or already occupied by stronger tribes. Despair devoured our ancestors’ spirits. The Nubala might have ended at that time, with the last of our ancestors dying in some unknown country.

  “But then, Besu Jusa sent a vision to my many-times mother-ancestor. The vision led us to this place – Muyum. Here, we found water, pastures for our cattle, land for our crops, and the Wall Rocks and High Rocks to protect us. And Muyum was far away from the invaders who drove us from our old land, and far away from any people who would try to take this new land from us.