“Yes.”
Now one of the graybeards spoke. “Ye don’t know her anymore, Aidan. She might not remember ye.”
Aidan shook his head. “That’s not possible. We are twins, and I swore her a promise.”
There was nodding and agreement in the room. Then quiet. Then the old man spoke again. “I know what I said sounded like coward’s talk. But Aidan … ye would become a slave again, to save her?”
“Aye. That, and more,” Aidan replied.
His eyes met Sophia’s. He was risking more than his life and freedom. He risked their future. Although terribly frightened for him, Sophia nodded proudly. That was his woman, and the sudden understanding of her strength made him long to be a better man.
“I knew a man once,” said the oldster. “Ran away from New Alexandria to Wichita. Made a living selling himself to rich sinners.”
“I’ve heard of that. They have an agreement that they will free him, and gain smiles from the Prophet or something.”
The graybeard nodded. “Aye. These Africans have a rat’s nest of crazy customs. Anyway, he made a mistake, and sold himself to a rice farmer, brother to the local judge. Judge said that the agreement paper they’d signed meant nothin’. By selling himself, he became a real slave again.”
The old man leaned forward. “You know what happened?”
Aidan could feel what was coming. “What?”
“Went crazy. Fockin’ crazy. He’d been born a slave, and then was free, and when he became a slave again something cracked inside him.” He slapped his palms together in emphasis. “Like that. He just foamed and chewed the grass.”
There was a long pause. Everyone waited, wondering if there was more. There was no more. That was the story, and it implied everything that it was intended to.
“That won’t happen to me.”
“What if ye can’t get back to us?” the old man asked.
“I’ll get back.”
“What if ye can’t?” the graybeard bored in.
Aidan met his eyes squarely. “If I don’t come back to cradle my children, to love my wife, to work and hunt and fish with you … then you’ll know I’m dead.”
They muttered to each other, but Aidan spoke first. “If there is any chance at all of finding me sister, I have to try. It isn’t just for me. How can we forget what happened just a single day ago? That could have been the end of everything. We need more power, more leverage, or next time, we might not be so damned lucky.”
He leaned forward. “Kai came here to use me, but I tell you that I can use him, and get the better of the deal.” His eyes gleamed. “He has power—power that can make our children safe, protect our lands and homes, our wives.…” He lowered his voice until it was very nearly a growl. “Power to grow strong, until we can give the blacks reason to regret they ever nurtured us. If I can do him this service it will tighten the bond between us, place the Wakil of New Djibouti in my debt.”
Again a pause, filled with whispers.
“Do you realize what that means?” Aidan pressed on. “To us? To our children? Kai has already assisted us with the Salaman constabulary. If I can find the right leverage with the Wakil, our crannog would be safe. No one would dare interfere with us. There would be one place on this continent where white men would be safe to raise their families and work their fields and love their women. One single blessed place.”
The eldest woman nodded. “One can grow to two. To three, and more. It could be a beginning.”
There were nods now, assurances, eager whispers.
“Do you see?” Aidan said. “Do you see why I have to do it?”
“Yes, we see,” the old woman answered. “But what I don’ understand is why ye brought this to council. Boyo, yer mind’s made up already.”
Aidan smiled wanly. “Because I want your blessings. I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll fail, that this is my last chance, and I’ll fail Nessa. Sophia. Mahon. Our new baby. All of you. I can’t do this alone. But if I go with all of you in my heart, then maybe … just maybe, I can do it.”
The old women whispered amongst themselves, then the eldest stood and shuffled over to Aidan. She spat on her thumb and made a cross on his forehead with the moisture. Oddly, instead of the expected coolness, he felt only a warmth that seemed to spread up through his scalp and then down the back of his spine until his tailbone tingled.
“Coire Soís,” she said. “The Cauldron of Knowing. May it be alive within you, and guide your every thought and deed.” She lifted his shirt and made another cross on his chest, over his heart. “Coire Ernmae,” she said. The Cauldron of Vocation. Ye have many skills, Aidan. May your heart embrace this new one, that you return to us safe and sound.” And finally she drew a third cross at his navel. “Coire Goiriath, the Cauldron of Warming. The source of your power and vitality. May it blossom beyond your dreams, that your quest be fulfilled.”
“So mote it be,” said they all, young and old, together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
20 Shawwal A.H, 1294
(Sunday, October 28, 1877)
Two days after Kai and his men returned to Dar Kush, Cetshwayo’s negotiator Mpondo Khozi arrived. Khozi was an aged, battle-scarred Zulu lawyer accompanied by an honor guard of eight sons. Servants escorted them to their guest rooms on the third floor, drew baths that they might refresh themselves, and provided a hearty meal. Then Kai met with them in Dar Kush’s central atrium. “The ceremony must respect our people,” began Mpondo after initial pleasantries were concluded.
“My father had every intention that this be true,” answered Kai.
Beside him, Babatunde spoke. “Wakil. May I?”
“Please.”
“One of the fissures we must bridge is that of the spirit.”
“Excuse me?” Mpondo asked in his graveled voice. Thus far, despite the Zulu’s well-known disdain for those of mixed blood, he had been coolly polite to the Sufi scholar.
“The matter of religion,” said the Sufi.
Mpondo continued. “It is understood that Nandi’s children will be raised in Islam. However, the princess’s soul is her concern, and hers alone.”
“Agreed,” said Babatunde. “We have no interest in depriving the princess of whatever comfort she finds in the presence of her ancestors. We understand and respect the beliefs of the great Zulu people. This is not the Old World. We desire a land in which each may regard and approach the Creator in his own way.”
These words elicited a smile from Mpondo. “This is meet, and good.”
“We ask only,” said Babatunde, “that since any children will inherit the estate and the power and authority that that implies, that they be raised in the traditions of the Wakil’s family. That they not have two hearts, the mother must not attempt to teach the Zulu way of spirit until they have reached the age of reason. Then she may share with them what she will.”
“It will be,” said Mpondo. “If the marriage begins with mutual respect, it may endure in the same manner.”
“There is one other thing,” the Zulu lawyer continued. “This one came directly from the lady herself. She craves a boon of the Wakil.”
“What boon?”
“She said that it is to be specified later, and that if you love her, you will trust her enough to grant this.”
Kai looked at Babatunde and laughed, and nodded.
During breaks in the negotiations, Kai showed his guests the extent of his holdings. Maps detailed the salt plantations and Aztecan silver mines, while more personal inspections were possible of the ships, the countinghouse, the herds, the fields, the armories, and the slaves.
It was impossible to tell if they were impressed: for all their reaction he might have been a merchant welcoming them into his leather shop’s single room, ignorantly proud of goods his guests would not have inflicted upon their meanest servant.
Later, after the day’s interactions had ceased, Kai took refuge in spiritual study. As in the negotiations, his Yoruban tutor led the way here as well
. It was this night, after the third day of wrangling with Mpondo and sons, that Kai found he could no longer conceal his thoughts and fears.
“Babatunde, I must tell you something,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Something that occurred at the Mosque of the Fathers. At the shrine.” Kai fidgeted. He did not want this discussion, but saw no means of avoidance.
“During the battle?”
“Yes. During the battle.” He paused. “Shaka went insane.”
Babatunde snorted. “A brief journey.”
Kai shook his head. “He was brilliant, unpredictable, savage—the most frightening human being I have ever met.”
“More so than Malik?”
Interesting. So Babatunde had been frightened of Malik, after all! Until this moment, Kai had never been certain. “Yes. Malik’s darkness was balanced by love for his wife, and also my father. Shaka had a half dozen wives, none of whom had any real power at all—he was a rogue, more fully in the shadow than the light.”
Babatunde nodded. “My assessment as well.”
“But during the battle, he used his own troops to lure the Aztecs into the tall brush. Then he set fire to it. He planned to burn them all.”
At this, the Yoruba’s eyes sharpened. “Everyone?”
“Yes,” said Kai.
“Do you mean the mamluks?”
“No. Everyone. There were black troops as well.”
“I see,” said Babatunde. “Bilalians? Or Zulus also?”
That question stopped Kai for a moment. He thought back: most of the sacrificed men would have been Bilalians: Abyssinians, Egyptians, Yorubans, a dozen other people. And of course whites. But there had been some Zulus as well. Sacrificed so that … so that…
So that his Bilalian allies would not suspect that they had been set out like lambs in a lion trap. Probably some of his least-useful men, a “trouble brigade” established for just such a purpose. Which implied that his troops, many of them, would approve of such tactics, even when they might prove homicidal toward his own men. Why? Because a warrior who marched with Shaka marched to victory. In any war men died: that truth was inescapable. What matter if Shaka consciously and deliberately expended some of these? Even if that were true, a soldier had been more likely to survive a campaign under Shaka than almost any other leader. “Kai?”
Babatunde’s voice seemed to reach from some outer darkness, and Kai suddenly realized how far afield he had allowed his mind to wander. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
Babatunde gazed at him curiously, and then shrugged. “All right. What happened when you realized Shaka was killing his own men?”
“Ali tried to stop him. Shaka stabbed him.”
“And then you killed Shaka.” It was not a question.
That startled Kai out of his trance. “Yes. How did you know?”
Babatunde smiled grimly. “I know you. It makes sense of your behavior these last years. Did you hide his body?”
“No,” said Kai. “I think his own people did. Hid, or buried it. Perhaps to keep it from being desecrated, or to conceal the fact of his death, or … Allah, I do not know!”
Babatunde mused. “Some say that he did not die, that he returned to Africa on some kind of spiritual quest. Men say many things, think many things when they cannot accept a paler reality.”
“In death,” said Kai, “Shaka looms larger than ever he did in life.”
“And the one person who could refute the stories dares not speak. A pretty problem, indeed. And now Nandi comes.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she knows?” asked the Sufi. “That her father knows?”
“The Zulus abandoned us at the mosque. They knew. Or suspected.”
“But how? There were no witnesses!”
“They saw Shaka’s wounds, and Ali’s wounds. Our feet and bodies marked the earth. The Zulus are the finest trackers in Bilalistan. They can read sign. They knew. And that means Cetshwayo knows whatever they knew.”
Now, at last, Babatunde seemed alarmed. “Then you must call this wedding off! Shaka’s niece is your Hashassin.”
“But…,” said Kai. “But I could be wrong. Fodjour said it best: why not just shoot me at a distance?”
“Kai—if she marries you, her children will be heir to Dar Kush. They will kill you after the ceremony or perhaps after she bears a son, when a single stroke serves two purposes—vengeance and power.”
“But if they do not know, I would be responsible for damaging the alliance. Djibouti needs the Zulus.”
“They need their Wakil as well.”
Kai smiled weakly. “And I … want her.”
Babatunde smote his forehead with his palm. “Allah preserve us. The fate of our entire empire rests on your loins. Let us hope they are … firm enough for the task.”
“Firmer all the time.”
Babatunde sighed. “Kai, Kai … is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from placing your neck upon the block?”
“I wish I knew,” Kai said. “But I see no way to deal with this save direct address. Babatunde, if ever I needed my father’s wisdom, it is now. Absent that, thank Allah that you stand beside me.”
“Never have I felt so inadequate,” the little Sufi said. He sighed deeply. “Kai,” he said after careful thought. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Zulu Heart’?”
“No,” he said, then paused. “Perhaps.”
“It is a quality that men strive for: the ability to forget the past, forget the future, live wholly in the moment. It produces both monsters and saints.” He paused. “I think that it is sometimes used as an insult, suggesting that Zulus have no values, no honor, nothing save expediency. To the degree that that is true, Nandi is completely unknowable. She may or may not know of Shaka. She may or may not love you. She may or may not have been given specific instructions. But Kai …” Babatunde leaned close. “Once she leaves her father’s home, she is a different woman. All that happened before that moment was another life. She will do whatever suits her, whatever feeds her hungers. I wish I could tell you what that means, but I cannot. That is the question of her soul. In truth, she may intend to kill everyone in your household. Or she may intend to be a good and faithful wife.”
“How will I know?” Kai asked, miserable.
“You won’t. And then, one day, you will.” Babatunde sighed. “Well. So. A wedding it is. And if it is to be as memorable an occasion as I fear, I suppose we had best make it festive. Allah, even more than His creations, loves a good jest.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Evening had crept stealthily across the crannog, and although fiddle music and laughter wafted gently through the darkness, in Aidan and Sophia O’Dere’s home, only quiet talk and warm companionship filled the night.
They had shared dinner with the Borus: Donough; his wife, Mary; and four-year-old young Donough.
As the boys played their drowsy games the adults spoke of simple things, personal things, never mentioning the brambled path ahead. It was a time of simple joys and sharing, one that Aidan embraced with his whole heart, opening his senses that he might carry this with him, no matter what might come to pass.
As Donough and Mary left, Aidan’s bearlike friend turned and hugged him, and looked down into his eyes. “No matter what happens,” Donough said, “your lady is me sister. I’d die for her, ye know that.”
“Live for us all,” Aidan said, his eyes stinging. “What a long, strange road we’ve walked, Donough. It just got stranger still, but this ain’t the end of it. That, I know.” He dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “We’re just beginnin’.”
Donough nodded, a big grin covering his pain and fear, and then they left.
Aidan walked back over to the fireside and sat there. His son, Mahon, crawled up into his lap and laid his head against his father’s chest. When he’d first told the boy of his intentions, there had been tears, and the small, strong hands had gripped at him as if they could hold Aidan safe fro
m a treacherous world.
But there were no more tears now. Every man in the crannog was Mahon’s father. Every woman his mother. Wasn’t this what had happened in the slave ship, long long ago? What was it that … what was his name? Niad. God, it all came flooding back to him. Niad of Cumhail, a man disgraced, ashamed to be alive when so many of his fellows had died resisting the Northmen. “So long as there is a man oj Eire living, you have a father….”
In a land so torn and fearful, it was the only philosophy that gave them any hope at all. Too many fathers were gone, too many mothers torn from their children’s sides. Sophia was right: the only safety for any was safety for all.
Safety. A village where every man, woman, and child was family. Where no soul was abandoned. Where no man had to bow to another because of the color of his skin. A place where they might not have to expel the fugitive slave, and could look the black men in the eye and not plead, not beg, but demand respect.
Yes. He ran his hands through Mahon’s hair. The boy was sleepy. It had been a long day. Aidan had spent it fishing and playing with his son, stretching it out as long as he could, and now it was ending. He would leave in the morning, before his boy awakened. Sophia agreed that that would be easiest.
And even that was killing him.
Mahon looked up at him, blue eyes bright and cool in the firelight. For a terrible moment Aidan feared the boy would beg him not to go, make some last-minute tug on his heartstrings. Instead, Mahon reached a stubby hand into his pocket and pulled out a little wooden figure. “Here, Da,” he said, and pressed it into Aidan’s palm.
He looked at it carefully. Carved from some soft wood, it was the image of a little man: two arms, two legs, a head, clumsily, lovingly crafted.
“Is this me?” Aidan asked.
“It’s me,” Mahon said, pouting fiercely. “Unca Donough helped me. Keep me with you?”
Sophia was watching them both, and he saw, actually saw the moment when the firelight began to glisten in twin tracks upon her face. He prayed that the thickness in his own voice would not betray him. “Always,” he said, and kissed his boy’s cheek. “And you know? If it’s the two of us, that makes it twice as easy. Those bad men better watch out!”
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