The Shadow King

by Maaza Mengiste

  Kidane jumps to his feet. He kicks her and curses while he pulls up his trousers. You’ll be sorry you were ever born, he says.

  Hirut sits up, waiting for her legs to stop their trembling, for her stomach to stop heaving, for her tears to dry and language to return. She begs herself to stand before him and declare herself a soldier, to find the words to shift herself onto stable ground. But she is frozen, helpless, mute, closemouthed while he gathers himself, wipes his face, curses once more at her, then storms away. She sits there in the filth of her body, frightened and angered at its insistence on survival. Then, finally, she stands up and finds the path back, stumbling and flailing beneath panic. There is no escape. There is no way out except through battle. There is no other choice but to be a soldier, to take her useless Wujigra, point it at the enemy, and hope for the mercy of her own death.

  THEY WILL HAVE TO DO WITH TARIKU WHAT THEY’VE HAD TO DO WITH all the other corpses: they will have to bury him without ceremony, in the dark, on nondescript land. Churches have become easy targets for the planes. Cemeteries are deliberately bombed. There will be no gravesite, no burial on holy ground. Everything will have to be done as so many things in this war: quickly and efficiently.

  They’ve given up, Kidane says, pointing to the latest village to refuse them a burial for Tariku. He puts an arm around Seifu’s shoulders as Seifu grips his wife’s hand. They sit around the campfire pit and watch Aklilu throw in a few fresh twigs. Kidane continues: They’ve decided it’s better to hide and live like cowards. He flicks an eye at Hirut as he says this. I can’t believe this. He drops his head into his hands. Where do we bury him?

  Behind them, leaning against a large stone, Minim plucks a mournful tune on a krar. The gentle musician was the one to lead the procession to the burial site, and he marched ahead of them all as they returned back to camp, never letting his music falter.

  They’re scared, Aklilu says softly. They’re afraid of reprisals. They’re tired of burying family members or having them disappear because these Italians accuse them of hiding or feeding us. They’re not safe and they’re unarmed, and these Italians are paying them to turn against us. They need our protection, but we’re the ones asking for their help.

  Aklilu drops his eyes, avoiding Kidane’s gaze. For a brief moment, Hirut thinks he’s going to say something to her, but instead, he drops the remaining twigs into the fire and sits down next to her. Kidane looks between the two of them and frowns. She feels Aklilu’s concern, the steadying force of his unspoken refusal to move away from her even though his place has always been closer to Kidane. Above all their heads, drifting in the cooling breeze, the steady thrum from Minim’s krar. He is plucking at the strings so delicately that the sound comes to them like an aching whisper.

  What did you just say to me? Kidane’s voice is frighteningly soft. We’re not protecting them like we should? You’re saying this to me?

  Let’s kill this Fucelli and end it, Seifu says as he wipes his eyes and keeps his other hand gripped in Marta’s. Why are we waiting?

  Marta presses into him, her face contorted. His arm slips around her and draws her closer, and for a moment, they are so bound together by loss that they appear to Hirut like a single body grown thick with grief.

  Kidane rises to his feet and looms over Aklilu.

  In the distance, another series of planes approaches, growing louder before the sound starts to fade.

  This is why Hirut takes no real notice of Kidane at first. But then he opens his arms and tilts his head and he becomes a figure tipping into a dark void, taking flight against a strong wind. She presses closer to Aklilu and feels him lean against her, a balance.

  Tell me this, am I free? He turns in a circle then stops, looking at all of them. Why don’t you tell me, brave Aklilu, am I free?

  All eyes fall once more on Aklilu. Kidane raps on his chest with a hard knuckle and asks the question again. Though his face is still pointed up, she can feel the suggestion of his gaze, the accusation he is also hurling at her.

  What makes me a slave to the ferenj? Kidane slaps his chest. How am I a servant to them in my own country? What makes you think giving up is acceptable? We are Ethiopians! He strides to Aklilu.

  Aklilu doesn’t flinch, and this, more than Kidane’s anger, makes Hirut frightened.

  The emperor’s gone, Dejazmach Kidane, Aklilu begins calmly. For them, it’s finished. They can’t fight without their leader.

  What’s finished? What’s finished when a man can’t even bury his son as he should? When a mother has to leave her child without a proper blessing?

  Aster sucks in her breath, a sharp hiss of air.

  Kidane bends down and jabs his finger into Aklilu’s chest. He spits the words into his face: What’s over?

  Kidane bristles with rage. He is preparing to unleash the full scope of his fury; he is unwinding the wrath he would have thrown at Hirut if not for his own humiliation. He hums with a deep-rooted revulsion that must leave its mark on the closest target.

  Dejazmach, they’re finished with dying and killing, Aklilu says. He is speaking with a stubborn insistence, and the closer Kidane leans, the more rigid Aklilu becomes. He is sitting up so straight that his back nearly arches. They did it when they believed in the fight, he continues quietly. But they don’t believe in you. Or anyone else. Aklilu stares ahead, looking beyond the group, staring at a fog-covered horizon. They believe in the emperor. We’ve never fought a war without our leader.

  Past Kidane’s shoulder, Minim cradles the krar against his chest, listening spellbound to Aklilu. His ragged shamma is wrapped tight around his thin frame. He has stopped playing and in the descending quiet, a lone wolf’s howl sweeps past the anxious group watching Kidane to see what he does next. Aklilu has thrown them all off balance.

  The emperor’s not here. Kidane kicks aside a twig then picks it up. He breaks it and twists it around his hand. A soft gray light lies over his features and blankets his concentrated stare. But I am. We are.

  But we’re not enough, Aklilu says.

  Kidane turns toward Minim and stares at the distant hills, toward a place that has collapsed into the horizon’s long line. Clouds separate in the wind, and for a moment a bright moon cups them all in a stark beam of light.

  Well, you must know, right? Kidane says without turning to Aklilu. You must have read this, I’m sure.

  He takes out an old newspaper from his satchel. He unfolds it and gently flattens the creased face of the emperor across his palm. He holds it out to Aklilu and Hirut knows right away which photo it is. She has seen Kidane staring at that same picture while seated in his office. It is the one he once kept on his desk beside his maps, laid open to reveal a solemn-faced Haile Selassie gazing at everything happening within those four walls.

  Aklilu holds the picture closer to get a better look at the emperor’s face. You know I can’t read, Dejazmach, he says simply. I’m a fighter, it’s what I was born to be.

  Hirut leans in to take a look at the photo again. In Aklilu’s hand, the emperor’s head looks small and fragile, the creases in the paper prod his nose and mouth out of shape. She has seen this image so many times while cleaning the house that she feels she can draw each line and slope of Haile Selassie’s face. He is a stranger but familiar, like a wandering relative come home.

  Minim plays into the tense silence. The krar moves in slowly, tapping against Marta’s voice whispering her son’s name. The notes rise when her voice lifts, then tumble down when she drops her head against Seifu’s shoulder. Hirut watches Minim, fascinated. He has turned their attention away from the brewing argument, this quiet man who rarely talks, who seems to carry an instrument as if it were his only companion. She stares at him, mesmerized by the tune, the slopes he makes the notes climb before letting them fall into a low moan. She has never truly noticed him before. He was simply just Minim, the soft-spoken man with the strange name that means Nothing.

  She notes his slender, long nose and the bony elegance t
hat makes him look both fragile and dignified. Beneath the long, thick locks of hair that fall across his forehead and around his ears, his face is narrow, the cheekbones broad, the chin tapered. He is someone she knows. Known and unknown. She looks quickly at the newspaper image, then back at Minim.

  He looks like him, Hirut whispers to Aklilu. Like Jan Hoy.

  Like who? Aklilu glances around.

  He looks like him, like Jan Hoy, like the emperor, she repeats and points to Minim. Then stops when Kidane pivots angrily toward them.

  What’s she saying? Aster leans forward, curious.

  Kidane snatches the newspaper back and brings it to his face. He holds it out and squints again. He folds it so that only the emperor’s face shows. He strides to the tree and leans down to look at Minim.

  Minim scrambles to his feet clutching his krar. A nervous finger rakes across the stringed instrument and jarring tones drop like an injured animal.

  Kidane flattens the newspaper clipping and holds it next to Minim’s face. He looks from the picture to Minim, from Minim back to the picture.

  What? Aster says getting to her feet. What’s this?

  Kidane leans into a frightened Minim, transfixed. Look up again, he says.

  Aklilu stares at Minim intensely. I don’t understand, he finally says.He, too, gets to his feet.

  Meet at my cave, Kidane says. Bring him.

  MINIM, KIDANE SAYS, his tone as gentle as the time he told Hirut he needed her Wujigra. You look like the emperor, has anyone ever told you? Kidane looms over the slightly built man in the cave.

  Hirut feels a surge of pity for Minim, and when he sinks onto his haunches, she rushes to him, guilty that her words have put him in this place. She settles a hand on his arm.

  You’re OK, she says.

  Minim is working a finger through a hole in his ragged shirt. A candle flame plasters his silhouette against the wall behind him. When Kidane steps forward to pull Minim to his feet, his own dark shadow molds into a hulking figure melting into Minim’s.

  He’s scared, Dejazmach, Aklilu says softly.

  Do you think I’m going to hurt him? Kidane’s voice is startlingly loud in the cramped space.

  But what can we do with this? Seifu asks. What’s this have to do with Fucelli?

  Kidane pushes Hirut aside and puts his arm around Minim. He starts to speak to the farmer in a soothing voice. My father and grandfather used to tell me stories of shadow kings, he says. Empress Zewditu even had her shadow queen when she led her armies. Our leaders couldn’t be in two places at once, so they had their doubles.

  Him? Aster says, pointing at Minim. He’s just a peasant.

  Minim is shaking his head. Can I go, please, Dejazmach?

  Kidane holds him closer. You’ll help us win this war, he adds. There’ll be stories about you that generations will repeat. Kidane’s face is alive with excitement, bright and eager. He is standing taller, the fury from earlier disappeared.

  But what does he know? He’s not even a soldier, Aster says. And you won’t let the women fight? Her laugh is bitter.

  Kidane nods to Seifu. We’ll have to get clothes, weapons, anything we can find. Aster, you know someone who might have some of Jan Hoy’s things. Get the clothes.

  My God, you just do anything you want, Aster says. But she steps closer to Minim and runs a hand across his shoulders, then from one shoulder to his waist, then she gets on her knees and follows the line from his waist down to his ankle. She is quick and meticulous, mimicking the motions of a tailor. At Zenebwork’s wedding, she says, the emperor was almost my height, maybe a little shorter. She nods. They’re about the same.

  Aklilu is staring at Hirut. He’ll need a guard, he says. Someone trustworthy. Maybe even someone who can inspire some of the villagers to help us, especially the women. Weizero Aster, Aklilu continues, Hirut can stay with him from now on. We can’t spare any of our men right now. He looks at Hirut then at Aster. She’ll need to move to his area. It’s a little further from the others but I’ll be nearby.

  A girl? Then Aster nods slowly. Of course, she says. Then she narrows her eyes and looks at Kidane. She’ll stay with him. Then she looks once more at Minim and the newspaper. I don’t believe it, she says softly. I can’t believe it.

  IT IS NOT YET DAWN WHEN A YOUNG BOY WAKES HIRUT AND MINIM TO take them up a narrow path to the new cave where Kidane says they must stay. Hirut struggles to keep pace. Her limbs feel disjointed, out of balance. She has not felt in command of herself since the first time Kidane came for her. Her body has not been her own, and she has found herself unsure at times of what it is that propels her forward from daylight to night. She tries to hurry now, embarrassed when Minim pauses to let her catch up.

  In the cave, Aklilu, Aster, and Kidane are gazing down at a set of clothes at their feet. A short candle offers feeble light. In the tepid glow, Hirut can make out a red umbrella made of velvet with gold embroidery, its color vivid, almost touched by sunlight. A khaki military uniform is folded into a perfect flat square and lies on a stone next to a pair of leather shoes and a black felt hat. Kidane holds a black cape and a crisply ironed shirt. Even in the dim cave, the shirt is so white that Hirut’s tired eyes cannot look without blinking rapidly. Its collar and cuffs are pressed into sharp triangular points, sleek as a knife.

  An adviser of the emperor’s in the area gave us these. Some things he left behind in Dessie, he must have expected to go back, Aklilu says. He picks up the military uniform and starts to unfold it. He holds it out to Minim.

  Minim drops to his haunches and shakes his head, his attention glued to the large cape that sways on Kidane’s arm as if from a ghostly pressure.

  He can’t sit like that, Aster says. Like a peasant. What emperor does that in public? Get him up. She motions to Minim. And doesn’t he talk?

  We have to do this before the others wake up, Kidane says. The girl will take him through Debark when we’re ready. Then if it works, we’ll move to Dabat and keep going. He speaks past Aster to Aklilu. His jaw is tense, his eyes narrow, and he is scrutinizing Aklilu, searching for something that makes the younger man stand taller. Make sure she doesn’t ruin things.

  Aklilu shakes out the uniform jacket and holds it against his chest. The shoulders are narrower than his own, slender and boyish in comparison. He puts down the jacket and picks up the trousers, calculating their measurements, then he hands it to Kidane. Everything will fit, he says. It’s unbelievable, like a gift, he adds. And it was your idea, Hirut.

  Aklilu nods to Hirut and stares at her with such intensity that Hirut has to drop her head.

  Get him ready, Kidane says to Aster. You want to be a soldier, this is what it means. He throws the trousers in her direction and goes out, Aklilu following behind him.

  Aster stares at Minim. Get him dressed, she says to Hirut. I’ll wait outside.

  Unsure of what to do, Hirut looks out of the cave to see blackbirds flapping into the ashen sky, the morning clouds thin as vapor. She feels the soft material of the trousers, the lightness of it, the way the seams lie flat, expertly sewn. It looks odd in her hands with their scars and dirty fingernails, the scrapes she cannot remember getting. The cape lies on the ground on a burlap sack, the stark-white shirt with its many buttons rests on top of it. She is afraid to touch anything, afraid to make a stain that will reveal both herself and Minim as impostors. Pushing the pair of trousers toward Minim, she half expects the emperor to stride in and order her jailed for treason.

  Minim hugs the trousers to his chest, embracing them with a nervous glance. He caresses the khaki, awed by its fineness.

  This isn’t for me, he finally says. He shakes his head and looks at her, embarrassed. It’s not for me to wear.

  Outside the cave, she sees the fog seeping away from the horizon, lifting to reveal dew-drenched grass. Tall cacti and white-flowered shrubs form loose patterns through the field. A donkey brays just past a nearby hill and a young boy calls out greetings to his goats. The day is starting
, and for a moment, it is as if nothing has changed.

  It’s for you, she says, and takes a step back. There’s no one else who can do this. I’m sorry, she adds. It was my idea, but I didn’t think—

  But I can’t do this, Minim says. I’ll take the beating, whatever he does to me, I’ll accept it. I can’t do this. He taps his chest. I know who I am, he adds. I’m Minim.

  We have to follow orders. She takes a deep breath and straightens. We’re soldiers, she adds.

  I know what happened, he blurts out. He took you near where I sleep. I know.

  Her heart convulses.

  We’re soldiers, she repeats. Her mouth trembles.

  I’m just a musician. My mother named me Nothing, Minim, do you know why? Because I had an older brother who died, and after him, what’s left? I’m just a musician, I’m not anything else. Minim stops abruptly then, struggling to regain his composure. Then he motions to the scar on her neck. He did this? he asks softly.

  She lowers her eyes. You have to get dressed. You have to, otherwise, I go back. She stops and stares into his eyes, at the gentleness and pity.

  Finally, he nods and starts to put on the clothes.

  MINIM SITS FROZEN on Kidane’s horse, a red umbrella folded shut and resting across his ornate saddle. He is a breathtaking figure in uniform, his black cape dark as the dead of night, his polished shoes so shiny they seem almost wet. He is a replica of the faded picture, Emperor Haile Selassie come to them with overgrown hair, a shaggy beard, and shoulders that slump into a concave chest. He is a battle-worn image come to life, creased and slightly faded, but held up by sturdy bone, guarded by two soldiers named Aster and Hirut who stand on either side of him, an example to all of Ethiopia’s women.

  You’ll be all right, Hirut whispers, careful to keep her gaze ahead, where Aklilu and Kidane are in deep conversation, pointing from Minim to the valley below.

  Tell him to sit straight, Aster says to Hirut. Remind him of who he is now.