Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog
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He was always courteous, patient, smiling, and he might sit for hours listening to whoever needed an auditor. He listened, nodded, and smiled and consoled and…well, he mostly listened. He was known everywhere for this, that he never turned anyone away who needed someone to hear them.
A tall, but stooping, smiling man…his smile was something that Griot had to watch and wonder over. Ironic, yes, always; tender, kind…but was there something else, too, a touch of…was that cruelty? No, it was a carefully hidden and held-down impatience. But this always patient Dann did sometimes flare into anger and it was usually with Griot, who pestered him—Griot knew Dann felt that. When this happened Griot was fearful and Dann was apologetic, with a bit of reproach—‘Don’t worry, Griot, there’s no need to be afraid. I’ve got Him well in hand, yes, I promise you.’ And then he added, ‘But sometimes I hear him howling on his chain—there, can you hear?—no, no, I’m only joking, Griot.’
When Dann had finished with the College of Learning for the day he went down into the garden where there was an unusual monument or memorial. In the middle of a platform made of slabs of yellowish stone was a tall irregular piece of white rock that looked like ice, but was a shard of crystal that had been brought from far away in Tundra. Dann wanted rock that looked like ice.
Here Ruff was buried. Dann sat on the edge of the platform, sometimes until it was dark. Griot went down to join him.
‘You see, Griot, he loved me. He really did, Griot, you know…He was my friend.’
‘Yes, Dann, sir, I know. He was your friend.’
Once, Griot would have gone off to find his sand girl—a woman now—but she had chosen to live with a reed worker from the great river. Griot had forced himself to think something like plenty of fish in the sea…but there had been no one he liked as much, and he never found the word to describe his feeling that she was irreplaceable and like nobody else. Lonely, he had taken to visiting Leta and her girls. There, a lively black girl, Nubis, from the River Towns, sang and told stories, and one day she said, ‘Griot, come and sing with me; why don’t you sing?
This surprised Griot, who had not thought of melody and song as a possibility for himself. ‘I can’t,’ said he.
‘Now, come on, Griot, you have a nice voice.’
So he learned the songs of her river and then she said, ‘Griot, you must find your own tales to sing.’
Griot could not think of anything in his life that deserved a song, so he made up songs about Dann’s and Mara’s adventures. One evening he sat with Dann at Ruff’s grave, and said, ‘Now, listen, Dann,’ and sang his version of Dann and Mara and the river dragons.
At first Dann seemed disturbed, but soon he smiled and said, ‘You’ll always surprise me, Griot. But why me? You forget Mara and I were among so many—so many, Griot. Who praises them? Who sings about them? The funny thing is, when I was one of them, running like them from the drought, I never thought of them like that. But now I do. I think of them a lot.’
‘But Dann, a song about you must include them. People listening will imagine those others—won’t they?’
‘Will they? I hope they do. People just disappear, Griot; they vanish like—bits of straw in a whirlwind.’
Sunset, the hour Dann liked to sit there, with his Ruff, his dead snow dog; and the time Griot was free from his many labours. Sunset, the birds noisy, the dark soon to come, and supper; then, instead of sleep, as it had been once—people falling asleep as soon as the meal was done—all the old friends sat together, and Leta’s girls too, and they sang their stories and exchanged news from all over Tundra. Griot was always asked to sing, and when he did he praised Dann most of all.
‘But I notice you never sing of The Other One,’ Dann said. ‘Never about the Bad Dann.’
‘I wouldn’t like to do that, Dann.’
‘A pity. He has interesting things to say, but only I hear them.’
Griot could not help suspecting that his voice, so commended by Nubis, was not as good as she made out. This charming girl, a drought orphan like so many, hoped to be Griot’s favourite. Now, that really would be a triumph for her. Griot thought, At least my sand girl never flattered me. And then came the doleful knowledge: Probably I will never again be able to trust in the truth from anybody, when they flatter.
Griot began visiting the high moorland hills, making sure he was alone, with only the foxes and hawks to hear him. There, he sang to find out for himself what his voice was worth, but soon knew that no one could ever hear their own voice as others did. He sang for his own pleasure—and fancied that the foxes and birds came close to listen. This shocked him: surely not a thought for a practical man! When he sang about Dann, or Mara, and sometimes Tamar, no difficult thoughts appeared, but sometimes he let his voice go free, and sang without words or thoughts; then, more than once, his tentative voice, which seemed that it wanted to learn something, began a kind of howl, a tuneless sound; and this really did shock him. Why, Ruff could have howled like that. There was a bird he loved to hear, a small, grey, creeping bird that hopped about near him in the heather; its song sounded like ‘To-do-again, to-do-again, to-do-again’, and Griot heard Dann’s voice instead of the bird’s. This frightened him away from the moors, and he did not go back for a long time. Then he did; he seemed to be drawn there. When he stuck to his songs of Dann, nothing arrived to trouble him, yet the moment he was tempted into his wordless song his voice roughened into a yell, and then a howl. Griot blamed the place, the skies, those sunny, smiling, deceiving skies; after all, not so far away to the north-west they became the low, grey, sullen skies over the marshes.
He was tempted to tell Leta of this experience, but when he was at home away from the heather and the heath and the playfully treacherous skies, what he felt up there seemed fanciful, not worthy of him.
He did allow himself to think calmly, like a serious and practical man, that Dann told him he kept locked up a part of himself that wanted to destroy him. Was he, Griot, the same? Was everyone? He never shared these thoughts, not even with Dann. He felt that would be dangerous, like confessing a weakness.
A conversation between Dann and Tamar. They were watching Griot walking towards them, a solid, healthy, serious man.
‘He is still young, and I am old,’ said Dann—‘and yet, I am not much older than he is. The joke is, when he came to be a boy soldier under me in Agre, I was his Captain—and three years older than him.’
Tamar held his hand and did not say anything.
‘Did you know the ancients lived to be eighty, ninety years?’
This upset Tamar. ‘Oh, how could they? How awful.’
‘Even a hundred sun-cycles, sometimes.’
‘I’d hate that,’ said Tamar.
‘And we do well to live to be forty, or fifty.’
‘Why, Dann?’
‘It is not known why.’
Ali said to Griot, in his passionate and reproachful way, ‘Poor Tamar, she works so hard. She’s a young thing. She shouldn’t always be so serious.’
Griot said to Dann that Ali thought Tamar needed some fun. ‘She works so hard always.’
Dann said to Tamar that everyone was reproaching him for working her too hard. She needed some fun. ‘Something of that kind, Tamar.’
‘Fun?’ said Tamar.
They were walking in the garden beyond Ruff’s grave, where she would never go: it made her too sad.
‘I suppose they mean dancing? Is that what they mean? I know the young girls dance and have festivals—that kind of thing, Mara?’
‘I’m not Mara, I’m Tamar,’ she said, and put her hand into his. ‘Dear Dann, some day you’ll have to let me be Tamar. And let my mother go.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Dann. Then, ‘Mara never danced in all her life. She was too busy—surviving. Poor Mara. She didn’t have much fun, did she?’
‘I did go and dance with the other girls,’ said Tamar. ‘But I’m not good at it. I’m too—stiff.’
‘You’re going to have
to think of something to keep Ali and Griot pleased with me.’
‘The girls made up a song about me. It’s a game. Shall I tell you how it ends?’
And so she stands and bows her head.
Who cannot dance must bleed, we said.
‘And she did, didn’t she,’ said Dann. ‘Mara—did.’
‘Dann,’ said Tamar. ‘Please.’
Dann stopped, put his hands on Tamar’s shoulders and peered deep into her eyes. He often did this, and not only with Tamar. He seemed to feel that if he peered long enough the truth of that other person would be seen.
‘Poor Dann,’ said Tamar. ‘And I’m still Tamar.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right.’
‘Ali isn’t always right. It was he who said I must go and keep company with the other girls. But it would have been better if I hadn’t. There’s another verse of the song they made up’:
And so she stands and bows her head.
Who cannot sing is dumb, we said.
‘Don’t they love you, the young women?’
‘They love you, Dann. All of them, everybody. But they don’t love me.’
This hurt Dann, and she said quickly, ‘No, it’s all right, they could never love me. They want to admire me, they want me to be perfect. I should sing wonderfully, dance better than they do, and I should play at least a dozen musical instruments—better than they do. Don’t you see, Dann?’ She was coaxing him to laugh, and now he did.
‘So, they wouldn’t love you because you aren’t perfect?’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t ever love me. They love you, because you are Dann.’
‘Because I am such a…such a…’
‘What are you?’
‘A misfit. I don’t—fit. I always expect them to throw me out. “What do you want with that—that poor thing,” they’ll say.’
‘They love you because they think you are like them, and that forgives them for everything.’
‘Little do they know. Oh, Tamar, if you knew how I long just to set off—somewhere, anywhere, walking somewhere, just to walk, you see?’
‘Where would you go?’
‘Perhaps I’d go with Ali, when he goes home. That’s a whole sun-cycle—to get to his home.’
‘And when you got there?’
‘I’d walk on, and on—anywhere.’
‘But you have to be here, Dann, and so do I.’
‘We have to play our parts, yes.’
‘Yes, until the story is finished.’
‘When would that be? When I die? When you do?’
‘Why are you talking of dying, Dann?’
‘Did you know that long ago, long, long ago, they often said, “They lived happily ever after”?’
‘Oh, I like that, Dann.’
‘But what kind of people could say that? Or, perhaps they were just…whistling in the dark, the way we do.’
‘No, no, Dann.’ And Tamar was really upset now. ‘Why do you laugh? The way I see my life…’
‘Your long life…’
‘Long enough, for me…it’s moving from one bad dark place to a better—from the Farm to the Centre, and then to a good place. This is a good place, Dann, isn’t it? The way I see it, this is living happily ever after.’
‘Yes, of course it’s a good place, of course it is.’
‘Well, then, don’t laugh when I say it. Why do you?’
‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’
Over in the Centre Kira was ill, old long before her time, and she sat on her throne-like chair sodden with poppy, and gave orders to everyone. Joss was dead: a knife fight. Kira replaced him with favourites who did not last long, because they didn’t get much good from her. Most of her soldiers had joined Griot. Kira had a ragbag of soldiery, usually drunk or on poppy, who were nothing to fear.
Rhea had remembered she was the daughter of General Dann, the ruler of Tundra, and boasted that one day she would be ruler. Dann sent her a message inviting her to live in Tundra, with her own establishment. But she would have to obey its laws. She replied that when she did come it would be at the head of an army. She was very drunk, the messenger said.
Griot could not see her as a threat; he did not see danger coming from anywhere.
There were rumours that one of the kingdoms by the great river, south, towards the lakes, had plans for invading Tundra. They were suffering from the drought.
Griot said to Dann, ‘You see, sir, I can’t believe they would be so stupid. Tundra is very prosperous, we provide stability for all the Northlands and to the south and east too. We grow so much food there are always surpluses for sale. We are an example to everyone. So there would be no advantage in attacking us. I mean, it would be too stupid. I am pretty sure there is no need to lose sleep over it.’
‘Well, yes, Griot, it would certainly be stupid. I agree with you there.’
About the Author
DORIS LESSING is one of the most celebrated and distinguished writers of our time. Her most recent books include The Sweetest Dream and The Grandmothers; two volumes of autobiography, Under My Skin and Walking in the Shade; and Time Bites, a collection of literary essays and criticism. She has recently been awarded the David Cohen Memorial Prize for British Literature, Spain’s Prince of Asturias Prize, and the S. T. Dupont Golden PEN Award for a Lifetime’s Distinguished Service to Literature, in addition to an assembly of other prestigious international awards. She lives in north London.
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By the same author
NOVELS
The Grass is Singing
The Golden Notebook
Briefing for a Descent into Hell
The Summer Before the Dark
Memoirs of a Survivor
Diary of a Good Neighbour
If the Old Could…
The Good Terrorist
Playing the Game: a Graphic Novel (illustrated by Charlie Adlard)
Love, Again
Mara and Dann
The Fifth Child
Ben, in the World
The Sweetest Dream
‘Canopus in Argos: Archives’ series
Re: Colonised Planet 5, Shikasta
The Marriages Between Zones Three, Four and Five
The Sirian Experiments
The Making of the Representative for Planet 8
Documents Relating to the Sentimental Agents in the Volyen Empire
‘Children of Violence’ novel-sequence
Martha Quest
A Proper Marriage
A Ripple from the Storm
Landlocked
The Four-Gated City
OPERAS
The Marriages Between Zones Three, Four and Five (Music by Philip Glass)
The Making of the Representative for Planet 8 (Music by Philip Glass)
SHORT STORIES
Five
The Habit of Loving
A Man and Two Women
The Story of a Non-Marrying Man and Other Stories
Winter in July
The Black Madonna
This was the Old Chief’s Country (Collected African Stories, Vol. 1)
The Sun Between Their Feet (Collected African Stories, Vol. 2)
To Room Nineteen (Collected Stories, Vol. 1)
The Temptation of Jack Orkney (Collected Stories, Vol. 2)
London Observed
The Old Age of El Magnifico
Particularly Cats
On Cats
Rufus the Survivor
The Grandmothers
POETRY
Fourteen Poems
DRAMA
Each His Own Wilderness
Play with a Tiger
The Singing Door
NON-FICTION
In Pursuit of the English
Going Home
A Small Personal Voice
Prisons We Choose to Live Inside
The Wind Blows Away Our Words
African Laughter<
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Time Bites
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Under My Skin: Volume 1
Walking in the Shade: Volume 2
Copyright
THE STORY OF GENERAL DANN AND MARA’S DAUGHTER, GRIOT AND THE SNOW DOG. Copyright © 2005 by Doris Lessing. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2007 ISBN: 9780061874796
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