A soft murmur ripples through the crowd and what the songs will later say is true: when Aster looks across at the stunned women, wisps of clouds cover the bright sun like high-flung sheets. A faint shadow drapes the plateau then slips away to shoot a brilliant spot of sunlight against the woman’s shoulders and that bloodstained cape. It is a heralding. It is a divine confirmation of her rights and her power. Every azmari will sing of this moment. From every tej bet and out of every hut and house and hotel, the singers’ words will be the same: that a blast of sunlight, powerful as an exploding bomb, spread across her shoulders in a message from God.
Aster senses the change, though she is too angry at the woman’s words to notice the uncanny sunlight. She straightens, proud again, and starts to speak in that quiet voice that knows it will be heard.
These aren’t the days to pretend you’re only a wife or a sister or a mother, she says. We’re more than this.
This last line will be sung as an anthem and a refrain while musicians slide a bow across the strings of a lovely masinqo: We’re more than this.
The women whisper it amongst themselves: We’re more than this, we’re more than this. They touch their faces, beautiful and plain alike, they press their palms against their breasts and on their stomachs and several plant a palm between their legs and laugh. We’re more than this.
The woman with the angry outburst stands in the middle of the crowd, looking from one person to the next, her rage rendered futile by the combination of sun and cloud and Aster’s magnetic pull on all of those around her.
We’re more than this. We’re more than this.
Aster shushes them and the noise drops immediately. She goes on, the smile she gives the woman who berated her pointed and cruel: When I missed during target practice, my father beat me, she says. I know it was the same for many of you.
Hirut thinks back to her own father’s lessons about the Wujigra, the seriousness of his instructions, the relentless drills he put her through after a long day in the fields, forcing her to pretend to load, then aim, then pull the trigger while he whispered, Again, do it faster. There were times when he exploded in frustration and wished aloud for a son.
Our fathers were strict with us, but we learned to be strong, she adds. For a moment, her face twists. Aster opens the burlap sack and takes out a smaller sack, tightly knotted. She opens it and shakes out the powdery contents into her hand. She does this without acknowledging the woman who is still staring at her and shaking her head.
Aster reaches into the larger sack and brings out a handful of charcoal. She puts it into her palm too. Then she straightens, tall and proud again, and extends her hands. You’ll know what I’m doing, Aster says, if you remember what our mothers and grandmothers told us.
Gunpowder, this is how they made bullets, she’s making kilis, my mother showed me, my aunt taught me long ago: the women talk amongst themselves and it seems to Hirut that the longer they continue, the angrier the tall woman in the crowd gets. She is stiff with malice, unable to hide her distaste, unwilling to erase the look of contempt that curls her mouth up and narrows her eyes.
There are women who don’t want to help us, Aster says. She points to the woman. This one refused to give me her sulfur earlier today, so I took it.
The crowd shakes its head, hissing in disapproval.
I have to feed my family, the woman shouts. Her voice is tight. It’s not hers, she adds loudly. And who cares if you lose, all of you? She spits on the ground. Who wants your king? She thumps her chest and spits again. Let the Italians come.
Aster cannot hide her anger; her composure has left and there is no hint of the elegance with which she manages to do everything. She is stripped of reserve, and what Hirut sees is the part of Aster that beat her with a whip and left her in a stable. There it is, trembling in front of them all in the form of Aster.
Aster continues: This woman is like the rest of them, they’ll divide our country so we lose and become slaves of the ferenj. They think these invaders come in fairness, she says. These fools don’t understand what happens if we lose.
The two of them glare at each other, then the woman spits on the ground and turns to the other women: She’s a thief, worse than a beggar. Let the ferenjoch come, I’ll help them. Then she rushes away, and down the hill, her cries growing fainter with distance.
Any of you who want to leave, go, Aster says.
Two more women stand up and hurry away without looking back, their heads down. Aster is rigid, her face impassive again, the stern set of her mouth a defense against any sign of emotion. She takes a breath and tips the pail toward the rest of the women. It is half full with sulfur.
Who remembers what to do? she asks. Who remembers what it means to be more than what this world believes of us?
ANOTHER MESSAGE FROM FERRES, WRITTEN IN THE SAME CAREFUL, neat script as before. Rossi. 3 columns. 1500 strong. Pushing through Debark to Bahir Dar. Will be attacked, reinforcements needed.
None of this is new information. It is what the emperor’s runners have relayed to the armies in the region. What’s unusual is the unspoken directive that Ferres is giving. This messenger, a different boy, looks from Aklilu and Seifu back to Kidane, trying to gauge the importance of his message by their reaction.
Biruk gave this to you? Kidane asks.
The boy nods quickly. He’s the weaver, the blind one.
Biruk? Seifu looks startled. My neighbor from Fogera? Seifu starts to say more, but Kidane raises his hand and shakes his head. He looks down at the messenger. Go, he says, be careful.
Faven’s brother, Seifu says as soon as the messenger has disappeared. She was my good friend when we were children. She left for Asmara.
Fifi, Kidane says. She’s called Fifi now.
Aster’s voice rises from the bottom of the hill just in front of him. She has had groups of women working all through the night mixing gunpowder and making bullets. They’ve run out of used casings but she’s sent women in threes and fours to scour the hillsides and villages in search of more. That she is doing all of this while still wearing his father’s cape is a detail that he cannot stop thinking about.
Kidane turns away from her direction, looks toward the horizon. If the Italians get to Debark, he says, they’ll get to Gondar and Bahir Dar then head toward Addis Ababa. What he does not add: Gugsa, the man governing Mekelle, has become Italy’s celebrated collaborator. Many of his men are said to be joining the ferenj army, weakening the northern front. To stop Rossi, however far away from Mekelle, is to stop the momentum of Gugsa’s betrayal. It is to stop another strategic advantage the Italians need in order to keep moving toward Addis.
People are scared, Dejazmach, Aklilu says. He keeps his voice low, his head down. We can’t protect them with the guns we have, he adds.
The bones in Aklilu’s face are sharply etched beneath his skin as he turns. Kidane stares down at his own hands, the thick veins that press up, knotted, whenever he moves. All of them have grown thinner, but it’s more pronounced in Aklilu. His already taut frame now molds around leaner muscles, giving the impression that the younger man is constructed out of bundles of unbreakable wire. He has heard several of the men whispering in disbelief about the fact that Aklilu refuses to eat until all of them are fed.
Distribute whatever guns we have, take the bullets the women have made, divide them up. No one should have more than three, Kidane says.
Dejazmach Kidane, three? Bullets? The shock is too great for Aklilu, he cannot keep silent.
Kidane is already turning his back to them: there is a battle to prepare for, supplies to give out, guns to distribute, men to measure for courage.
My father always said it only takes one bullet to kill a man. I have one extra gun, a Wujigra, I need to give it to a strong fighter, Kidane says as he leaves. Select our best shooter. We won’t take a large number with us. We’re reinforcements, not the whole fighting force.
KIDANE HOLDS THE OLD WUJIGRA in front of him, relishing the stur
dy weight of it, the smooth marks where strong hands made slight grooves into polished wood. On the barrel are five scratches that track the number of men felled by this rifle. These marks—like scars—told their own stories about battles fought and survived. On his father’s gun, too, had been these same slender lines dug into metal. They were meant to be signs of courage, badges of honor and patriotism, a way to remember the glories of war and victory. But his father once pulled out his old gun, a Mauser, and dragged his finger over the marks on the barrel, and said: These are the mothers I made weep, my son. These are the children I made fatherless.
But if you didn’t shoot, Kidane had asked, gripped in a young boy’s fear, they would have shot you?
His father had smiled at him. And so somewhere, a woman is always weeping, he had said. Then he had laughed, the sound bitter, full of an irony that Kidane did not understand back then.
Dejazmach Kidane, I’ve brought him. Hailu approaches his tent with his brother, Dawit, beside him, their long strides matching.
Dejazmach, Dawit says, Hailu told me you saved this one for me. Dawit looks up and flushes, pleased.
The brothers are a few years apart but they are nearly identical. Hailu, the elder, is slightly taller, with a more somber air that gives his good looks a gravity and refinement. Of the one hundred men who will go with him to Danakil, three-quarters have guns. Only a few of them have rifles that are relatively new. Aklilu has asked that Dawit have the Wujigra.
We’ll face bandits bribed to fight for the ferenj, Kidane begins. They’ll have weapons, and the ascari know this land. Be careful, he says, extending the Wujigra, letting the weapon slip from his hand into Dawit’s.
For a moment, they hold the rifle between them, the young man’s eagerness an electric charge that slides into Kidane and makes him smile. He watches as Dawit aims through the sight, weighs it in his hands and then, almost instinctively, finds the five lines.
It’s known blood, Dawit says, nodding. He nudges Hailu affectionately. Our father always said that a gun that’s tasted blood will want more. This one knows ferenj blood, he adds. We’ll be good together.
Hailu frowns. Enough, he says.
My father always said, Kidane begins, smiling, that a gun will not keep you alive. It’s only designed to kill. Be careful, listen to your brother.
I’ll watch him, Hailu says. He’s always been foolish ever since we were children.
My brother should be a doctor, Dawit says. He throws an arm around Hailu’s shoulder, the gesture practiced and quick. He’s the wise one, an old man already.
Go with God, Kidane says to them. He looks between the two, at their mutual affection and pride, and imagines himself with a son that might have lived, both of them bound by the dangers of war, but equally strong.
Aster is pacing back and forth in front of his tent when he returns from a final inspection of his troops. Grass stains mar the knees of her trousers—his trousers, the ones he kept for special occasions. Two swipes of charcoal rest on her cheekbones, and a thin film of dust coats the loose curls around her head. She looks sprightly, younger, more free than he has ever seen her.
I gave out all the bullets, she says. The villagers say there’s a convoy heading to Mekelle, journalists, musicians, administrators from Asmara. They’re celebrating that traitor Gugsa.
Kidane goes into his tent and lets her in. In the cramped tent that he uses for an office and sleeping, he is astonished, once more, by her appearance. Her hair is an outgrown, unruly bloom around her head. She is dressed like a man. She is speaking with new authority. He steadies himself.
Gugsa’s throwing a party for top-ranked Italians. Mekelle’s going to be full of them, Aster continues. They’re taking photos, it’ll be in the newspapers and on the radio. How humiliating for us. That man. Remember his wedding? She pauses, lost in the memory of Gugsa’s wedding to Emperor Haile Selassie’s daughter. Poor Zenebwork, she says. Poor girl to be with that wretched, spoiled, weak man.
The match was for the families, Kidane starts, then stops. It’s an old argument between them, the disastrous match that should have established harmony between two tense houses.
It’s always for the families, Aster spits out. She pauses, and for the first time she seems to be aware of him. You’re not getting rest, she says. She reaches out to touch his face, then drops her hand when he pulls away.
What do you need? he asks. He sees again the seams on the shoulders of her tunic, the fine stitching that she ripped out during alteration. He knows for certain that she has other clothes, dresses that she chooses not to wear. Any news about the cook?
We’ve been training, she says, tugging at her sleeve. After meals, we go through drills, same ones my father taught me. Same ones your father taught you. We all know them. She stops and straightens. Let some of us go with you.
Through the canvas, the sun is a block of light pressing into the tent, illuminating the tin cup sitting on the upturned crate he uses for a desk. She rests her gaze on his blanket. She has been sleeping with her women in their area, as if it is an unspoken agreement between them. He has started to suspect that she is not allowing those with spouses or lovers in his army to share tents. She has told several of his men to stay out of the section she has claimed for her women, and that has separated those who would have met and begun to stay together in the tradition of men and women who march toward war: one following the other, one making the other comfortable, one serving as a surrogate wife without the emotional demands of a spouse. The camps are so divided now that he is sure this is one more thing that his men talk about when he is not there: that this woman, his wife, has come in and changed the way things have always been done when men go to war. But how to raise the issue with them without the glaring admission that his wife has kept herself separate from him, too?
Let me go with you, she says. Some of us are ready, we’ll be your reinforcements. She takes his hand and doesn’t let him pull away. She presses her lips to his palm, the pressure gentle and soft, so tender he feels his heart lean toward her, remembering those days when she was someone else, someone he could comprehend.
He stiffens and steps back. You’ll meet us in the valley with fresh supplies, he responds. We’ll carry the wounded there, Hirut will help Hailu. I’ve told you this before.
He wants to remind her she has never been in a war. She was not raised to anticipate assaults. She was not taught from an early age about the body’s abilities to withstand force. She did not learn how to maneuver in the dark, through hills and rough mountains, all in the guise of boyhood games. She was instructed on how to shoot, yes, but what does she know about what to do if attacked?
Come back here with your women, he says. I’ll talk to them before you leave.
She stares at him long enough for the resentment to wash across her face. She lets it slide between them like a curtain finally dropped into place. Then she nods and walks away.
Chorus
A black cloud, dense as iron, slides through the hills, easy as a blade. It threatens to shake the women loose from the hilltop, to dislodge those fragile bodies inclined to bend toward the dark form. It is ungodly made, fashioned by man, a beast spun from fire and steel. On the flat ridge of the mountain, the women wait for a whisper that carries on a gust of wind: We are more than this. We are more than this. They watch as their Aster, splendid in that cape, points down toward the cloud and signals: Wait, sisters, wait and listen. Then the clamor blooms. It fills the sky in the whirling dust that siphons past them and dims their vision. It knots and billows, contracts and expands, and from the cacophony comes the deep-throated boom of full-grown men. The women look from on high as the convoy passes, traveling with the grim weight of war, the song of men and beasts fading until it is no more than the distant cry of ghosts: Faccetta nera, bell’abissina.
THREE FLASHES OF LIGHT GLINT FROM ACROSS THE GORGE AS KIDANE tries to get his bearings. The signal comes again: three flashes. He has been seen by the other Ethiopian armies.
From his pocket, Kidane withdraws a shard of glass. He stares across the gorge, but there is nothing to see. His trusted friend Bekafa’s army is invisible. He twists the glass in his hand until it hits the sun, then he lets it flash once, then he waits. The march has taken two days with little rest, each step moving into more dangerous territory. His men should be tired but their energy is a dense, thick rope knotted around him, making his heart beat loudly in his chest. A whistle comes, two clear notes: this will be the signal to attack. His hands begin to tremble. It is difficult to lift his binoculars to his face. He focuses toward the dry riverbed. It is quiet, but it is a deception. The Italian forces are not far away. Already, he can make out the cloud of dust that rises weakly in the horizon.
Kidane adjusts the binoculars as if he can see through mountain and stone. Lookouts near Wolkefit Pass have reported a column of at least one thousand ascari led by a small group of ferenj officers. The men are in left- and right-flank formations, with a center column and an advance guard made up of five hundred mercenaries. They are approaching the outskirts of Debark. Kidane presses the binoculars against his eyes trying to get a better look, trying to bring them closer so he can squeeze these tiny figures in his hand and shake them off like unpleasant dirt. He cannot control the tremor that snakes through him. He and Bekafa will have to attack while the Italians are in the gorge, unaware of their presence.
The Shadow King Page 11