Granite

by Jenny Robson

  I remember: Shumba stood high on a sand dune and made some stirring speech. With the diviner on one side giving thanks to our ancestors. And the junior priest on the other side giving thanks to Mmwahhari. And the minor praise-singer waiting his turn. But I do not remember Shumba’s words. Even though he spoke long and louder than the waves. No. I heard only the words that pounded inside my mind. Pounded like the surf on the rocks.

  “Let the King die! Let us return to Zimba Remabwe to find that the Nameless One is late and buried. I beg you, my ancestors. I beg you, great god Mmwahhari.”

  Treason! Even if they were silent thoughts! Still highest treason. But how else would my father be saved?

  But there at the village of the not-witches, only a single not-witch remained.

  I remember, Shafiq, that you interrogated her. Then you came to explain her story to us. But I have no memory of your words.

  Perhaps you must write about this yourself. About how the not-witches disappeared.

  Yes, and so we set our course homeward across the desert sands.

  Tshangani was talking on and on, stopping only to hoist his kaross a little higher in his arms. Until Chivhu ordered a bearer-slave to take the karosses and carry them. Both mine and Tshangani’s.

  “With great care, slave,” Chivhu ordered. “These are presents from the King. Do not dirty them or spoil their texture.”

  And then there was no stopping Tshangani. “Yes, my friend! As soon as we step onto the grass of Zimba Remabwe, we must ready ourselves for initiation. We will go through it together, comrades giving courage to one another. That will make it easier. We will focus on the glory and not the pain.

  “And then, Mokomba, we will have our choice of noble maidens. What do you think of Dithlari? You know, of the Dancemaster’s clan? No, but perhaps she is too thin. She does not have a child-bearing belly, I think. Unless these past round moons have filled her out? Or what of Senzi? Even if she talks too much for a girl?”

  He did not wait to hear my answers. That was good. For I had none, only my constant treasonous prayers. The words chanted themselves silently to the rhythm of my footsteps. Repeated and repeated. “Let our King be dead. Let our King be dead. Let the Nameless One be named.” Especially when I looked towards my father walking just ahead. With his head bowed and such desolation surrounding him.

  We slept again at the village of Chief Gonsi, where again he embraced my father with great love. Then he looked at my father with concern.

  “What is it, ReDombo?” asked the chief. “Are you not relieved to be close to home and safe after this journey? Are you not happy that soon you will rejoin your wife and children?”

  My father did not reply. The chief did not ask again. He just stood close at my father’s side in silence.

  As young boys, both nine winters, they had stood together side by side also. Watching as the towers steadily entombed the princely brothers. Chief Gonsi’s elder brothers. It is no wonder that he is such a sad chief who finds little joy in the events of his village.

  Chief Gonsi ordered drum-messages be sent to inform the people of Zimba Remabwe that we were close. Just a day’s walk now.

  But perhaps the winds were blowing strangely. For it seemed the message did not reach the city.

  We arrived at the valley entrance to our city as night was falling, weary and with longing for our families. But no one lined the path to greet us. Not even my mother. Not even my sister Raii.

  Only the prophet Tza was there to meet us. Still standing on his rock as the moon rose. As if he had never left his post in all the many round moons of our long journey.

  “Woe to you who have carried out the King’s foolish commands! Woe to you who feed his pride and arrogance! I tell you this: our great city will not see another winter. No, Mmwahhari is angered. He has turned his face away from you all. And great destruction will come upon these hills and valleys. Your ancestors will plead on your behalf. The spirit world will echo and fill with their cries for mercy. But they will plead in vain.”

  We reached then the outer wards where the slaves were housed. They were empty.

  “Where are they all?” demanded Shumba from the head of our procession. “And no cooking fires! Why are there no fires burning, not in any of the compounds ahead?”

  It was true. In the moonlight, the many huts and compounds stretched before us all the way to the foot of the King’s hill-fortress. And all lay in darkness and shadows. And silence. And emptied of all human life. Like the walled town of Dom Bashabeng. Except this place was our home, our one fixed place in the world. And it was night-time, when evil spirits are freer to stalk the natural world.

  Fear fell upon us all then. Even brave Shumba seemed cowered, not knowing which way to turn, not knowing whether to go forward or backward, rubbing anxiously at his severed arm.

  *

  The disappearance of the not-witches!

  The cruel deeds of the Mongol general Jani Beg!

  Not to mention the city state of Zimba Remabwe emptied of all its people!

  This chronicle has become as tangled as the thread of an unskilled weaver. As jumbled as an arithmetic puzzle. And I was never a good student in arithmetic.

  I understand now why the great chronicle writers kept their work orderly and simple and straightforward. In time and in place. Those great travellers and chroniclers like Ibn Battuta.

  “We travelled for five days through the desert of Thus. On the first day we encountered Thus. On the second day Thus was our experience and on the third day Thus happened. We arrived then in the town of Thus where we witnessed Thus and Thus. And Thus on the following day.”

  Yes, that is the correct structure for a chronicle! The correct and sensible way for it to unfold. So that all facts and observations are kept in sequence.

  Now there are leaps in all directions. Like the leaping of a young foal. And it is left to me to create some order.

  So first then: the disappearance of the not-witches. Only the old woman Atjigo was left behind.

  She explained: “I was in the sea amongst the rocks gathering shellfish. And then the warriors appeared. Strong men with spears and daggers. So I stayed hidden.”

  It seems the warriors were from the north – as all dangers seem to come from the north – and they assembled together all the not-witches with threats and with some violence.

  The warrior headman said, “You witches, you will come with us. There is great evil in our land. Winds rise suddenly and blow down trees that have stood a hundred winters. Blow them down on the heads of our children. And a lion comes at night and steals our calves from behind thorn-fences. Yet the lion leaves no paw prints behind. And our wells are suddenly filled with foul green water thick with worms.

  “Yes, and further, owls fly over our huts in the daylight hours. And vultures roost on our hedges and will not be chased away.”

  The not-witches went down on their knees, swearing that they had not conjured up these evils.

  The headman said: “Yes, that may be so. But you will know how to end this evil. You are in contact with the spirits of darkness. You know how to speak to them. Therefore you will come and make magick to force them away from our lands. And if you do not, you will be killed.”

  No matter how the not-witches swore they were not witches, that they had no magical powers, still they were herded together. Hobbled and dragged off into the haze of desert heat.

  “All but I alone,” said Atjigo. “All but I.”

  As to the matter of Jani Beg.

  He was a general in the Mongol army of long ago. A mighty and insane army that swept on horseback to the east as far as China, to the west as far as the lands of the Franks. Insane and cruel and ambitious and without compassion. Slaughtering all in their path. More cruel and vicious even than the armies of the Crusaders! So my history tutor told me.

  And Jani Beg had brought his army to attack the walled city of Kaffa on the Black Sea. He had his giant catapults ready: weapons that could fling giant
rocks against the walls to break them open.

  But many of his soldiers fell sick. With purple boils and red pustules on their bodies. With their fingertips turning to the colour of charcoal. And many died.

  So Jani Beg ordered: “Catapult these infected corpses over the walls and into the city of Kaffa.” Yes, the bodies of his very own soldiers!

  So the corpses were catapulted and they landed there in the very streets of Kaffa. And the citizens of Kaffa were more terrified of the Plague than of any army. So they ran from the city and Jani Beg took it without a fight. And the citizens took the Plague with them as they ran for the safety of Turkish and Germanic towns.

  So my history tutor told us.

  So, as I have said before, this Black Death has stalked the world off and on for many long years.

  And now to the empty and desolate valleys of Zimba Remabwe. Just like the emptied town of Dom Bashabeng, as Mokomba has said. Except that when we arrived it was night-time, when fear lies always closer to the heart. And it was our home, which should be a place that gives comfort.

  The still, lifeless shadows around the huts seemed to come from some dream-world. Some unreality. Like the dreams I had when I was ill as a young boy in Egypt and the wise woman fed me herbs and potions. I saw strange things then: pyramids that walked, bright turquoise rivers running in the desert, camels rowing boats past my window.

  I wondered if perhaps Chief Gonsi had put strange herbs into our food the night before.

  And then, from beyond and behind the King’s hill-fortress, came such a sound! Like thunder but it was not thunder. And the sky was lit by flashes of lightning that was not lightning. That could not be lightning. For the sky above was cloudless, the moon and the stars clear and unhidden.

  Allahu Akbar.

  12. Behind the hill-fortress

  Yes, and we stood amongst the empty huts, confused and afraid. Tshangani held fast on my arm as if he needed help to keep upright. Then in the moonlight such sounds reached us! Like the beating of drums, but without rhythm and meter. Many drums beaten by unskilled drummers.

  And with it came the light. Strange green light that shone above the highest walls of the hill-fortress. Then disappeared. Then shone again.

  There was a smell too of things being burned. Not wood. Not dry grass, nor priests’ herbs. It was a smell that seemed to sting sharply inside my throat.

  But worst of all were the screams that followed. As if the whole of Zimba Remabwe’s people were gathered beyond the King’s hill: nobles and commoners and slaves alike. And all of them screaming and gasping together in pain and terror.

  The junior priest was beside himself with fear. “The words of the prophet Tza are true. Mmwahhari is punishing us all. None of us will live through another winter. No! None of us will even watch tomorrow’s sunrise. None of us will escape this evil! We should have heeded his warnings!”

  With horror, I thought then: Perhaps I am the one who has brought about this disaster? With my prayers for the King’s death? Now, because of my high treason, all of my city will perish along with the King!

  Then you spoke, Shafiq. Your voice was soft but we heard your words above the distant drumming.

  You said, “I greatly fear that I know what causes these sounds and these light flashes. Yes, and I recognise this burning smell. These are not sent from your Mmwahhari. No, I fear they have been brought here by the hands of men. Hand canons. That is what we call them in Egypt.”

  But we did not recognise such a word as “canons”.

  “Matchlocks? Muskets, then?” you tried again.

  Still we shook our heads.

  So you explained. “They are like spears. But they kill from a distance. They are filled with Chinese fire medicine – ‘gun powder’ some call it – that burns and explodes with noise and light. Then balls of lead are sent out through the air at great speed. And the balls strike human bodies and rip them apart worse than any spear can. It is a new kind of weapon. A new way of warfare and killing. Some soldiers of our Mamluk army use such. I fear the citizens of Zimba Remabwe are being attacked and murdered! But by whom?”

  I ran ahead then. Ran towards the sounds and the screams. Even though my father ordered me back. But all I could think was to save my mother and my sisters from this weapon. From whichever evil tribe of men was bent on killing them.

  I rounded the lower walls of the hill-fortress. My mouth, my whole body was dry with fear. As if all the desert sands had come to rest within me.

  And then my fear changed to great confusion.

  Such an unexpected sight met me. It seemed that on the slopes of the northern hill that we called the Sentinel sat all the population of Zimba Remabwe. Young and old, slaves and commoners and nobles. All of them gazing upwards.

  Even the King was there, in his royal sedan and hidden behind silks and gauze curtains. Surrounded by his bodyguards, who also gazed upwards.

  I looked up too, just as stars appeared. Yes, stars! Green stars! Out of nowhere. Low in the sky and travelling at speed, in all directions, till they burned up and dropped to the ground! While the people on the hill screamed and gasped. I believe I screamed and gasped along with them.

  And then you were beside me, Shafiq. Laughing!

  You said, “Oh, but it is not muskets! No, it is the Chinese fireworks. Chinese fire-flowers. Made also with that same gunpowder. Such a strange thing, Mokomba! That what can cause death and pain can also create such beauty!”

  It was a night full of beauty. And relief. And joy at embracing my mother. And Raii. And my younger sister, who that evening had a lizard inside her woven basket. Even though my mother begged her to set it free! My mother had a horror of scaled creatures.

  “It is not pleased to be imprisoned, my child. See how it scratches to get away.”

  But my sister thought otherwise. “No, Mama. See, she is smiling. She likes to be with me. That is why I have named her Happy.”

  I laughed, hugging my little sister again. “A lizard called Happy! And are you sure your lizard is a girl?”

  My little sister nodded.

  And that was when the King’s spokesman addressed the assembled people. “From now onwards, the Nameless One shall be celebrated as He Who Brought Down the Stars. Yes, he will be remembered for this in songs and stories for all the generations to come. He will be venerated for his great power and generosity.”

  Across the slopes, people clapped and cheered so that echoes returned from our outermost hills.

  And greater joy was yet to come, for our clan at least.

  Next morning, my father returned from the council meeting up on the hill-fortress, along with you, Shafiq. He was smiling, his shoulders straight and strong and no longer burdened.

  He said, “All is well, Mokomba. All danger is past!”

  “How can that be, ReDombo sir?” I asked.

  “The King no longer has an interest in cathedrals. It seems that the building project is forgotten. He did not even ask about our journey. No! Now he is concerned only with more fireworks displays. Grander and brighter and louder.”

  And then, Shafiq, you said, “It seems the passion of the King is short-lived. As it was with the matter of my teaching the young nobles to write. But it is not for us to question the thoughts of the King. We can only rejoice when his thoughts make our lives easier. Not so, ReDombo?”

  We all went to our prayers then. Shafiq, you unrolled your prayer mat so that you might kneel in the direction of the distant city of Mecca, where your prophet lived. And my father and I knelt at our granite shrine. From where the spirits of our ancestors guide and protect us and keep us always in their thoughts.

  My father thanked them and gave extra gifts for bringing about this end to his dilemma.

  And I begged their forgiveness for my treasonous prayers. And vowed I would stay always a faithful and loyal subject to our King.

  I folded my thick kaross carefully and laid it in the back of my hut, ready for when winter should return. It seemed tha
t while we were gone on our journey, a further winter had come and gone in Zimba Remabwe. So that I was now fifteen winters in age. And another winter was fast approaching.

  It was a thing of great beauty, that kaross, a possession I would be proud of always. That I would show to my children and my grandchildren. Even if the King was not interested in our journey.

  Then I went to find my friend Tshangani. And oh, the pleasure and comfort of familiar places! To walk the paths of my childhood, to know what lay around each turn!

  Tshangani and I sat together beyond the walls of the enclosure of the nobles, there at our favourite place above the commoners’ well. It was late in the morning, so the young girls had long since collected their day’s water.

  Tshangani said, “My father is hard at work in the Storykeeper compound, creating the tale of this fireworks display. In greatest detail, even though we were not present at its start. The King wants it recited to him at council tomorrow.”

  I told Tshangani, “All is well now in the Stonemason compound. Apart from the matter of my sister Raii and her planned marriage. But there are always problems where Raii is concerned. Maybe a husband will improve her wild behaviour.”

  Then our conversation turned to our coming initiation. So that we might draw courage and comfort from one another. For the call would be made any day now. Already the old men were gathering in their secret place, sharpening their knives and discussing their plans and tests for us.

  *

  This evening as we ate our supper in our rented Sofala room, Mokomba put his spoon down. He said, “The day will soon be here when I must tell the worst part of my story.”

  I had to agree. “Yes, Mokomba, the day will soon be here.”

  “But will I have enough courage, Shafiq?”

  What could I answer? “Who can tell the future, Mokomba? It is a land that even the greatest explorer cannot reach. But you have been brave thus far.”

  Mokomba was unable to eat more. I did not press him. We stood at the window a while, and looked down on the sunrise sea in the moonlight. In silence.