The old woman stood gibbering with terror. At what? A large room, or small hall, held in its centre a shape in something like glass, but as soon as Griot touched it he knew it was not—he had never before seen this transparent, hard substance. It was difficult to see through the shine of the not-glass, because it was shaped like an inner room, square, and all over the inner side were stuck packs of leaves, stacked together. ‘Books,’ said his Mahondi interpreter, sounding relieved that the fearsome thing had turned out to be something he knew. But not something Griot knew.
‘The sand libraries?’ the soldier asked the old woman, but she was clinging to the rock of the wall and blubbering too hard to speak, or, probably, to hear.
Griot saw that this man from the east was interested, was impressed, was now moving around the inner shape, looking at one scribbled page, and then another.
The air was fresh—clean air was coming in from somewhere—but there was a smell of damp too.
In the middle of the squarish transparent room—but it was larger than that, more like a smaller inner hall—were piles of the same packs of leaves of pressed reed that were held on to the walls. What held them? Each was pressed to the surface with a kind of clamp, that adhered to the walls on either side by, presumably, some sort of glue.
The soldier from the east was transfixed with all this. He was moving from one of the exposed leaves, that had writing or pictures on, and saying, ‘This is…’ some language or other. ‘This is…I don’t know this one.’
It was clear that the old servant was ill; she was trembling enough to shake to pieces.
Well, so now two people knew the way, Griot and this eastern man, whose name was Sabir. They and the old woman. They set her face to the narrow slit which was the exit and had to push her through. They were afraid she was in such a state she would not remember the difficult way, but at last they were back outside in the air, and the route had been memorised by both men.
That night the old servant died. So did Felissa; from shock. At once in the camps spread the rumour that the curse had killed them. Would the soldier, Sabir, die? Would Griot? But no, they remained healthy and uncursed. Not a moment too soon had they discovered the Centre’s secret, because without the old servant no one could have found that clever, concealed way in.
What Sabir was telling his mates in the camp, Griot did not know: all he cared about was that it was not the route in, but when asked, Sabir said not many people were interested in the old sand libraries. There was one, whom he wanted to recommend to Griot; his name was Ali and he was a very learned man who knew everything about old books and languages.
In the great hall, along from Griot’s table, was set another, for Sabir and Ali, not so close that their talk could be an interruption to Griot’s work, but within earshot because he hoped to understand something of what they discussed. They had piles of the sheets of pulped and dried reed that were used for writing, and sticks of burned wood that made the marks, and the two went into the secret place every day, bending and slanting and oiling their way in the thin gap, returning, excited, their hands full of their notes. They came to Griot, to say, perhaps, ‘Most are languages that were lost a long, long time ago.’ Or, ‘We think there’s someone in the camp who knows…’ whatever it was. Griot listened, feeling stupid, and told them to save all this up for General Dann, who would be here soon. But where was Dann, where was he?
The spillage from a war does not run smooth, or clear: there are breaks in the flow. More than once Griot thought the wars had stopped and was thankful, for he was so overstretched, but then the refugees came again, all of them hungry, all shocked because this terrible thing had happened to them, all with a history of killings and pillage and fire. There were assemblages of clothes so various that this diversity itself united them; never had there been such a multi-hued and many-shaped mass of people. Some were almost naked, because their clothes had been stolen; some had stolen what they wore and this mass of ragged people, this patchwork, was what Griot was calling an army, and drilling and marching them in platoons and companies and regiments, as he had seen done in the Agre Army.
He walked with some of them to the trading posts on the Tundra border and came back with bales of the red fleeces, and then the camp blossomed into scarlet and on every left shoulder hung the mark of Griot’s army, the unifying red blanket. Never had so simple an act created such an immediate result. He was secretly proud of himself and perhaps a little afraid: this one thing he had done, an inspiration, yes—but he could describe it as an impulse of desperation—had created his army for him. What other similarly clever actions was he overlooking?
Griot achieved his army, his Red Blanket army, about halfway through Dann’s long absence—while he was expecting Dann to turn up every day.
Now, watching the two men at the companion table, so busy, so absorbed, Griot knew that he was ignorant, and did not even know what he was ignorant of: he was continually being surprised by randomly, accidentally dropped bits of information.
He had understood that in his army—his lovely Red Blanket army—were people who were learned: some had been powerful—like Ali, so Sabir said. Talk of the ‘sand libraries’ among some of the soldiers was as easy and commonplace as talk of rations or the eternal cold mists. Sabir and Ali were not from the same country, but from adjacent countries, far to the east; ‘sand-eaters’ was the camp nickname for them, and they told him that the countries of eternal sand were where ‘everyone’ knew, ‘had always known’ of the sand libraries of North Ifrik, where there had been no sand for—who knew? Thousands of years would do.
Now, when the new petitioners arrived, begging for admittance to this army, Griot’s army, two of the soldiers, Ali and Sabir, told him when they were learned and knew languages. Ali and Sabir sat by them, asking each one what they knew about the sand libraries. But no one knew more than that they existed and deserved to be spoken of with awe.
As for Griot, he wanted to know what could be so precious about these sheets of—well, it looked like old bark or half-digested pulp, dried and pressed—what? He wanted someone to tell him. Ali said, speaking to Griot carefully, choosing words, as if to a child, or as if he were using a spell or a charm whose words had to be perfect to be heard—as if words could be like a key in a lock—that ‘the sand libraries had held all the records from the past—secrets, some of them from before the Ice, secrets that in some ages only kings and their queens and their keepers of the libraries knew’.
Griot was wondering—and wondered that he had not thought of it before—what other information was at large in the minds of the soldiers, men and women in the camp. And now there was a new rule, that every new arrival must be asked what was the most important thing he knew—or she knew. What knowledge did he, or she, bring from their country that could be of use here?
The answers to that were like stabs of light in the dark of Griot’s mind. He had scribes from the camp, chosen by Sabir and Ali, to write down these answers and pile up the tablets or reed sheets—for when Dann came.
But Dann didn’t come.
Griot was feeding more and more, housing them, clothing them, creating the fisheries down at the Bottom Sea, the farms, the looms where fleeces were made into cloth for tunics and trousers. It was only the red blankets that united so many people—hundreds now.
Why did they submit to him, to Griot? he secretly wondered. Why should they? Some were so much cleverer and some really learned, and who was he? Who was Griot, a man without a country, a man who sat at his table in the great hall and called a rabble an army.
Griot made his plans, thought his thoughts, watched the two men from the countries of sand at their nearby table, in the great hall where the high windows or apertures let in patterns of sunlight when there was sun and where sometimes birds flew across high above, and one even made a nest among the coloured tiles. Tiles that no one knew how to make now, and Ali said the art wasn’t known in his country either…Ali, how often things did come back to Ali…
the little brown man, who did not smile much. He had lost all his children and, he thought, his wife, too, in the war he had fled from.
Ali, always there to answer the questions that Griot had to ask, because he knew himself to be so ignorant. But it was all right, Dann would come and then…
Dann didn’t come. And he did not send a message.
When he came, there would be all these new things to hear, about the secret place, about the information in it. There would be this army, General Dann’s army, for Griot knew very well that without Dann’s reputation, the legend of Dann, he would be nothing. Griot would be nothing, and it was not for him people stayed here, in discomfort, at the camp outside the Centre. People talked about General Dann, who was coming—soon.
All these new things to tell Dann—but wait, there was this business of his sister, of Mara being dead. Mara had died, and Dann didn’t know it and he would have to be told. Griot registered this from time to time; he did remember, and think, it will be hard for him, he loved his sister.
Griot had never loved anyone—except, of course, Dann, if that was the word for it.
Griot, waiting, always waiting, thought about himself, and what had made him and why he sat here, waiting for Dann.
He tried to send his thoughts back, and back, but they were always blocked by a barrier of smoke and flame, of shouting soldiers and screaming people among whom were his parents. But that was as far as he could get.
Later he learned that on that night he had been nine years old.
After that he was a boy soldier, in an army on the move, that raided, and stole, and made slaves of people he was taught to think of as enemies. He was one of many child soldiers, without parents. He used a spear and could kill with it, a club and used that, a catapult, his favourite, and killed birds and animals as well as people. He was well fed and slept in a shed with other children. He was stunned, he knew now, did not think, only obeyed orders and slept when he could.
Then one day he stood in front of an officer who was sitting—as Griot was sitting now—in authority, with soldiers being brought before him, one after another, until it was his turn. This man said to him, ‘What’s your name?’
‘It is Griot.’
‘Do you have another name?’
The child shifted unhappily as he stood: he knew there had been another name; he knew…
‘Never mind, Griot will do. What was your father?’
Griot shook his head.
‘Did you have brothers and sisters?’
Griot believed he had, yes; but all his thoughts ended in fire and shouting and killing.
This man, the officer, who was in charge of the children, said gently, ‘Griot, can you remember anything before—that night?’
Griot shook his head.
‘We attacked your village. There was a lot of killing. The village was burned down. But before that—do you remember?’
‘No, I remember nothing,’ said Griot, and though he knew he was a soldier and soldiers do not cry, tears were trickling.
He saw that this man’s eyes were wet too: he was sorry for Griot. It occurred to Griot to ask, ‘How long ago was that night—I mean, the night you came to my village?’
‘It was nearly a full year ago. It was the rainy season. Do you remember? When we marched away from the fires there was a big storm and lightning.’
And now, all these years later, Griot was thinking of the night the officer told him he was ten years old: he had in his memory on that night only a year of living.
‘You’re a good boy,’ said this officer, whom Griot knew only as ‘sir’.
And Griot, hearing the words, began to cry again in gratitude for them, hard and painfully, since soldiers do not cry, and he did not remember how he got back to the shed where his bed was. Next day they were on the move again, and there was an ambush and a big fight. Griot was captured, together with other children—those who had not been killed—and the kind officer who had told him he was ten years old was dead. Then he was a boy soldier in this other army, which he had known as the enemy, and from there he had run away, at night, hungry and sore from beating, and found a refuge in a village, he did not know what village or where. He was a servant to an old woman who beat him and he ran away again, in a flood of refugees escaping from war and wars. During this time, all he knew about himself was his name, Griot. He kept a record of how he grew older, ten, then eleven, then…
He knew how to kill. He knew how to make himself be like the people around him, when there were people around him. He knew how to run fast and unseen through the bush, and how to be a servant. He could cook, clean, do a hundred things in the way of mending, patching, making. But in all this time he met no one who taught him anything like writing or reading. As for numbers, he had learned how to calculate on an abacus, or with stones collected in a leather bag and used in counting barter.
Then, after adventures, he was in the Agre Army, and he was not ten now, but fifteen, and behind him his memories were only of running, fighting, keeping out of trouble, killing…and he had his name, Griot.
In the Agre Army he was in a platoon with boys who had had the same experience of running away, being a slave (once, in his case), being a soldier, never belonging anywhere. This platoon was part of a regiment under Captain Dann, who several times picked him for special tasks. ‘You’re a good boy, Griot.’
In the Agre Army there were classes; the soldiers were taught all kinds of things and Griot was going to be in a class that taught how to read and write Agre, and Mahondi and Charad, which was spoken, so he heard, all over north Ifrik. By now he knew phrases in a dozen languages. Then the Agre Army moved to attack the Hennes and Griot was with it. He heard General Dann had run off from the army and Griot ran after him, or rather, after what, at odd times, and by chance, he heard of him. It was like following a ghost on a dark night.
Then he had heard of the Farm, and that Dann was there, with his sister. When he got there, he was asked questions again—and again—but always came up against that night of flame and noise and killing.
In what he remembered the brightest thing was Dann, Captain Dann, for whom he had come here to the Centre.
Griot sat at the table in the great hall, where the light changed as the weather came and went outside, and waited for Dann.
Then Dann did come. He came, and was told about Mara being dead—and now he lay on his bed in his room. When Griot went in to see how he did, Dann said, ‘It’s all right, Griot. Leave me. Leave me alone, Griot.’
For three years Griot had sat and waited for Dann to come back. Now he sat and waited for him to wake up and become Dann again, become General Dann, take his place in the army, his army, General Dann’s army, the Red Blanket army—which was how the soldiers talked of it.
But he didn’t get up.
Ali, who had been a doctor in his country, said to Griot that he must be patient. When people have a bad shock, when they lose someone they love, sometimes it can take a long time to be able to live again.
Griot thanked Ali, whom he admired, to whom he was always grateful, but he thought privately that there was no one in that mass of people out there he called an army who hadn’t lost someone or several; lost wives, children, parents, lost everything…but they weren’t lying on their beds sometimes for hours on end, not moving at all. Sometimes it looked as if Dann was not breathing, he was so still.
Often, when Griot saw that Dann had not moved and that the snow dog waited there, patiently, he took Ruff out for a walk, and to be with the other snow dogs. Because Ruff was not always with them, they were cautious with him, and they all stood around for a while with their tails wagging, but Ruff didn’t want to leave Dann: when he went out with Griot he always looked back at Dann and barked softly. It was clear he was saying he would be back soon.
Sometimes Griot knelt by Dann, one hand on the snow dog’s head to restrain him, and said, ‘Dann, sir, Dann, General…’
And Dann would at last stir himself and sit u
p. ‘What is it, Griot?’
Dann was so thin, and ill, and it was as if he were being interrupted in some long thought, or dream.
‘Sir, I wish you would come out for a bit—a bit of a walk, perhaps? It would do you good. It can’t be good for you to be always lying here.’
‘Yes, it is good, it’s good, Griot,’ and Dann would lie back.
Then Ali told Griot to talk to Dann, even though it seemed he was not listening.
So Griot would say, ‘Perhaps you would like to hear what’s going on, sir?’
And though Dann did not answer, Griot told him what he was doing, how the food was being organised, how they were weaving now and dyeing, and that so many of the refugees had skills which could be learned.
He really wanted to tell Dann about the secret place and the sand libraries conserved there but was waiting for the right time, when Dann could hear, and perhaps sit up and listen.
‘Dann, sir, perhaps we could take a little walk along the edge of the cliff?’
‘Yes, we’ll do that tomorrow. Tomorrow, Griot.’
And after talking sometimes till his breath ran out, Griot left him, lying as flat as a sand fish, and apparently not breathing.
Two soldiers always sat with Dann, watching over him.
A soldier came running to the door after Griot, ‘Sir, the General does talk sometimes, he talks to himself and to us too.’
‘What does he talk about?’
‘He is remembering all kinds of things. Well, I’d not like to have to remember some of them. And he talks about Mara. We hear that was his sister, sir.’
Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog Page 12