D’Melo and Zara found Milpisi outside the library. He was teaching the week’s Enlightenment Lesson—The Legend of the Spirit King. A cluster of riveted children was seated in front of him on the cushiony blue-green grass. Milpisi lifted a hand. “Kuja,” he said to D’Melo and Zara, beckoning them to join the group.
Jonju, the boy who had chased Zara during her morning run, stole a doting glance at her. She returned a cross-eyed, goofy face. Jonju swiveled back to Milpisi, full of giggles. Milpisi, having lost the attention of his star pupil, motioned Jonju to his side, away from the great distraction of Zara.
Milpisi began recounting the legend with Leda’s journey to the mysterious man to find a cure for her husband’s illness. After the mysterious man blessed her into the Akhtiar—a corps of special healers—Leda returned to Kipaji at a time when her tribe was on the brink of annihilation at the hands of the Choma and Joto tribes. The Amanzi chief demanded that Leda use her healing abilities to save the lives of the Amanzi warriors. Before long, the tide of the war shifted in favor of the Amanzi. Upon discovering that Leda was responsible for the Amanzi’s good fortune, the Choma tribe hunted her down to kill her. But before they could, Leda sacrificed her newly born twin sons into the Ukuqala Pool. In the pool, animated by the Great Spirit, the babies merged into a youthful king, who wielded extraordinary power.
Milpisi then delved into how the Spirit King’s wisdom laid the foundation upon which current-day Kipaji was built.
“Astride a hippo, the Spirit King emerged, luminescent, into the Moyo. From his cloak, dazzling rays were cast into the purple sky.”
Jonju said enthusiastically, “And that’s why our flag is purple with gold streaks!”
“That’s correct, Jonju.” Milpisi said, pleased. “In the centermost point of the valley, the king dismounted from his fleshy throne and entered the Tabernacle. From there, he addressed the Wapendwa, united the tribes, and established the homeland of Kipaji.
“His first act was to create the Umoja Mkutano, a council of nine members. He ordained equal representation, two members for each of the four tribes. The ninth member of the Council was the Milpisi. Milpisi then offered a little trivia, “D’Melo’s father was the youngest person ever to be elected to the Council.” D’Melo managed a faint smile over his somberness about Baba.
“Then,” Milpisi continued, “the Spirit King uprooted a deeply held tradition. He declared all leadership positions, including the chiefs, be determined by election and not blood-right. The king was then asked about the succession of the crown. His response was received with great apprehension. What no one could fathom at the time, we now credit as the cornerstone for the preservation of Kipaji’s enduring unity.
“The king proclaimed, ‘The establishment of the Umoja Mkutano annuls the need for kingship. The Wapendwa are bidden to follow the guidance of this supreme elected body, just as they would a king.’ Then, to ensure that kingship did not persist, the king declared, ‘The nature of humankind is to turn to the king’s offspring or wife for leadership when the monarch’s earthly life ends. So, as a safeguard, we, the king, vow never to marry. This kingdom was established through the Spirit, not the flesh, and, for the welfare of Kipaji, it must continue as such. Blood or marital relations can never confer the right of kingship.’
“Since that day, over two thousand years ago,” Milpisi concluded proudly, “Kipajis have been living in peace and harmony.”
He then opened the lesson to questions.
“Sir, why did the king say ‘we’ when he was talking about himself?” Jonju asked.
“That’s a wonderful question. Not even our scholars know for sure. Some theorize that he was speaking for both himself and the Great Spirit. Others speculate that it was because he saw himself as one with all people. So when he spoke, he was representing the collective will of humanity. But most believe it was because he was composed of the merged twins from the Ukuqala Pool.”
D’Melo lifted a tentative hand. The children giggled.
“D’Melo,” Milpisi said, amused. “You are free to speak whenever your heart is so moved. You must just seek the right moment.”
D’Melo lowered his hand, uncomfortable with this disorderly process. His eyes flashed to and fro, trying to tell whether it was the right moment. The children giggled again; Zara joined them.
“Well,” D’Melo finally said. “Not that I don’t trust that you believe what you’re saying, but how do you know that these things actually happened? I mean, it’s quite an extraordinary story.”
“Leda and the Spirit King kept meticulous notes for posterity,” Milpisi assured, peering over his tiny spectacles. “If you are interested, the translations are displayed in the archives in the library.”
A tiny voice piped, “When Leda dropped her babies into the Ukuqala Pool, the young king emerged. But how? Where did this king come from?”
“Thank you, Zanu, for asking such an essential question. But unfortunately, my answer cannot match its import. I can only tell you what has been passed down from our ancestors. A further explanation is outside my realm of understanding, as are so many things. The legend is that Leda’s sanctified blood blessed the pool with unimaginable and celestial power. The water, animated by the unbounded grace of the Great Spirit, merged the babies, giving birth to the Spirit King.”
A bright-eyed young girl asked, “What were the other women of the Akhtiar like? You have only told us about Leda.”
“The extent of my knowledge on this matter lies within the four corners of Leda’s journal. She made only one brief mention of the other women of the Akhtiar.
“When the mysterious man led her to the Akhtiar, Leda was captivated by their wildly varying hues of skin and the color and texture of their hair. Seeing them under the acacia tree was like gazing at the most gloriously vibrant flower garden. A few of the women had hair like her own—tightly coiled—while others had hair as straight and shiny as a horse’s tail, and still others had flowing curls. The array of colors ranged from jet black to stark white. In between were assorted shades of brown and yellow. One woman even had reddish-orange hair. Leda noted that it was as if flames of fire poured from her scalp, like an erupting volcano.”
The kids peered at Zara and giggled. Zara lifted a tuft of her hair, You got me.
“Leda was magnetically drawn to the red-headed woman. She curiously caressed her fiery strands. The woman was tickled by Leda’s fascination. Just before the mysterious man began to address the Akhtiar, Leda whispered in the woman’s ear.
“Are there any other questions?” Milpisi said, scanning the assembly. There was an unsettled murmur among them. “Is there something amiss?” he asked.
“Well, sir,” Jonju offered politely, “you didn’t say what Leda whispered to the woman.”
“Oh,” Milpisi acknowledged apologetically, rocking back in his cross-legged position. “That was not quality storytelling, was it?” he chuckled. “That section of Leda’s journal was damaged by water. So no one knows what she whispered.” The kids slumped, disappointed. “But I can tell you what the red-haired woman responded. She said, ‘I hope so. That would be a blessing.’
The kids pursed their lips, wondering what Leda had said that would have drawn such a response.
“Sir,” Jonju said next. “Could you please tell us about how one becomes the Milpisi?”
“Jonju, do you have your sights set on my job?” Milpisi chortled. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that this would be not possible. The mysterious man explained to the Akhtiar that when they passed from this world, the fruit they bore from their wombs would follow them as the Milpisi. He also warned that, even though their bloodlines had been purified, they must choose wisely from their children. Not all would be worthy to administer the elixir of Haya. The only other guidance he gave was that the Milpisi would possess an unusual capacity that enhanced her or his ability to heal others. For instan
ce, for me, it is my zany sense of humor,” Milpisi joked.
The kids remained expressionless.
“So Leda’s third child,” Jonju deduced, “the baby the warriors didn’t know was still in the alcove, must have become the Milpisi.”
“That’s very astute, Jonju,” Milpisi affirmed. “And if not for that third child, I would not be here before you. She is my ancestor.”
“But Milpisi,” Jonju said, “you have no children. So then who will be the Milpisi when you pass to the eternal realms?”
Milpisi released a weighty breath. “I don’t know, Jonju. But rest assured, the Great Spirit has a plan. By the time I complete my earthly journey, I have faith that your question will be answered.”
Zara chimed in. “Milpisi, if I may.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Haya is the most magnificent and precious resource in the world. How does Kipaji ensure its protection?”
“At the bidding of the Great Spirit, the king trained twelve warriors from each clan in the art of elemental conjuration. They were endowed with the ability to manipulate the natural elements prominent in their regions—water, fire, mineral, air. We call these spiritual warriors ‘conjurers’—our Army of Light. The conjurers train new recruits to ensure that Kipaji maintains an army of forty-eight.”
“Ohhh, that’s why!” D’Melo said under his breath.
“What’s why?” Zara whispered back.
“I have this recurring dream that has always seemed so strange. In the dream, I’m play-fighting with a boy in a field of wildflowers. We’re pretending to command the elements, like these conjurers Milpisi’s talking about. I’m controlling minerals, like rocks and dirt, and the other boy is controlling fire. But then I pick up a real rock and throw it. It hits him just above his eye. The boy drops to his knees, blood pouring down his face. I’m so scared. I think I killed him.” D’Melo mused. “Now I understand why I have this dream. Baba must have told me the legend when I was little. Thank God. I’m not as weird as I thought I was.”
“Ahhh,” Zara said sarcastically, “let’s not close the book on that so quickly.”
D’Melo pursed his lips. Ha ha. They turned their attention back to Milpisi.
“The king commanded that the conjurers use their capabilities for the protection of Kipaji and Haya only. Also, they must act with stealth, ensuring that their abilities remain hidden from the eyes of the world beyond Kipaji.”
“Do you think this is real?” Zara said to D’Melo. “I mean, about the conjurers having special powers and all?”
“Well, if you would have asked me that before seeing a tree summon ancestors, I would have said no.” He shrugged. “Now, I don’t know what to believe.”
D’Melo resisted the urge to raise his hand, then asked, “Milpisi, what ever happened with the king?”
“Without warning, the Spirit King’s reign ended on the nineteenth anniversary of the birth of Kipaji. He was meditating on the summit of Amanzi Mountain, as he did every sunrise. His spirit, donning the golden fleece, lifted from his body and drifted to the bank of the summit river. He gazed heavenward and then spoke these words into the hearts of all Kipajis:
“‘The seed of the will of the Great Spirit has been sown in this hallowed land. Our purpose has been served, allowing for the sun of our existence on this earthly plane to set. In our absence, you must remain ever vigilant against the evil of discord. But if the darksome night descends upon this land once again, rest assured, we will return unto you from an unknown realm. And with the power of the Great Spirit, we will march together in serried lines to hasten the dawn of the light of unity.’ Then the king’s final words were, ‘O Wapendwa, know of a certainty that we are never further from you than your own hearts.’
“The king’s spirit then floated down from the riverbank into the rushing torrent. It was carried over the mountain ledge and into the Ukuqala Pool, returning to its birthplace. The pool rejoiced, dancing and swirling around his spirit. At the spot where the king was meditating, nothing remained. His body had vanished.
“In just a couple of days, on the fifth of July, our grandest festival celebrates the anniversary of the Spirit King’s ascension to the Hidden Realm. So,” Milpisi’s eyes shifted to D’Melo and Zara, “this is an auspicious time for you to be here.”
Zara nudged D’Melo. “Hey, that’s your birthday!”
With Baba gone and his life in tatters, D’Melo couldn’t care any less that he was soon turning eighteen.
“For next week’s lesson,” Milpisi closed, “we will venture to the alcove. There, we will visit the Mwanzo Mpia, a monument to a ‘New Dawn,’ erected where Leda birthed the triplets.”
The kids bounced to their feet and immediately began play-fighting, imagining themselves to be conjurers. All, that is, except Jonju. He was enchanted by something else, or more accurately, someone else. He made a beeline for Zara and leapt into her lap. She dipped him, planted her lips on his neck and blew, making bubbly sounds. He giggled hysterically. The other kids rushed over, hoping to have a turn.
“Well,” Milpisi grinned, “it seems you have won the hearts of the children of Kipaji with astonishing ease. I wish I could get them this excited about my lessons.”
“It’s just my hair,” she said, as the kids tugged a few strands, marveling at its glistening hue.
“They’ve never seen anyone with hair like yours,” Milpisi explained. “I’ve only seen it once myself, years ago. So red hair runs in your family?”
“Actually, no. My mom and grandparents have brown hair. But apparently one of my ancestors was a redhead.”
Milpisi looked to the sky. Then he said gratefully, “It’s my time.” Before Zara and D’Melo could ask him what he meant, Milpisi requested a private moment with them. The children ran off to the wildflower field. Only Jonju remained.
“You too, Jonju,” Milpisi prodded.
Jonju’s shoulders dropped glumly.
“I’m sorry, my love,” Zara comforted. She smooched his forehead. His pouty eyes instantly brightened into a twinkly gleam. He breezed off, his euphoric feet hardly touching the ground.
The moment the kids were out of sight, D’Melo’s thoughts returned to Baba’s audio.
“Son,” Milpisi said. “You look troubled. Is there something you want to tell me?” They settled on the bench outside the library.
D’Melo told Milpisi everything about Baba’s message on the secret flash drive. Milpisi gazed reflectively into the distance, listening.
“It all makes sense now,” he said. “I never knew why your parents left so abruptly. For weeks, I replayed our final encounter in my mind. I wondered woefully about what happened to your family. But, about a month later, a tiny box appeared on my porch. Inside was Baba’s Ibada ring.”
D’Melo fondled the ring on the chain around his neck.
“That was his way of letting me know you guys were okay,” Milpisi said, his eyes moist.
Milpisi’s attention then returned to the matter at hand. “So where is this recording?”
“We don’t know.” D’Melo unrolled the drawing across his lap. “But we think this has something to do with it.”
Milpisi slipped his spectacles from his shirt pocket and positioned them toward the tip of his nose. “It’s a lovely piece,” he said. “But I don’t see anything to help locate the recording.” Just then a stormy wind kicked up. D’Melo turned the drawing ninety degrees, struggling to keep it flat.
“Ohhh. Look at that,” Milpisi said, leaning in. “It’s Kipaji.”
D’Melo rotated the drawing another ninety degrees.
“I had no idea that Diata was so mystical with her art.” Milpisi pointed out Pollux and Castor. “These stars are the twins.” His finger moved contemplatively over the drawing. “And here is Hamal. It’s the most luminous star in the Aries constellation. In Arabic
it means, ‘the head of the ram.’” Milpisi wrinkled his brow, as if discovering something. “The way Diata overlaid the constellations, Hamal lies directly on Pollux, the immortal twin. Why would she do that? What is the relationship between the head of the ram and the immortal twin?” Milpisi inclined his head, stroking his beard. “Ahhh, Diata!” he said, straightening. “You’re brilliant!”
“What is it?” D’Melo asked.
“The ram, headed by Hamal, had a golden fleece—the representation of kingship. And the Spirit King lives forever in the hearts of Kipajis. So, in this sense, he can be said to be immortal, like Pollux. These two things converge at the Ukuqala Pool, where the Spirit King arose wearing the golden-fleeced cloak. The recording must be there.”
D’Melo said warily, “But the recording can’t be in the pool.”
“That’s true,” Milpisi said, deflated. “I must be missing something. How about rotating the drawing the final ninety degrees?”
Milpisi helped D’Melo flatten the drawing, as more strong gusts lifted the edges. A dark shadow crawled across the valley floor from the thick gray clouds creeping over Choma Mountain. Milpisi observed the swiftly darkening sky. “A mighty storm is brewing,” he said.
Zara reached into her handbag, dug out a shawl and wrapped it around her neck. Next she pulled out a slouchy beanie cap and tugged it onto her head. A tuft of hair danced in the breeze over her eye.
D’Melo raised a brow at her. “We’ll just wait for you to finish preparing for New York fashion week. Because we have nothing more important to do right now.”
Zara narrowed her eyes at him, Was all that sarcasm really necessary?
“Milpisi,” D’Melo said. “We looked at the drawing from this angle, too. There doesn’t seem to be anything significant.”
“There has to be,” Milpisi insisted. “Otherwise, it would be incomplete. Three sides with meaning and one without? That would not make sense.” A raindrop splashed on the drawing. D’Melo quickly rolled it up. They hastened into the library and spread the drawing out on a table in the art nook. While D’Melo thumbed through Marley’s astronomy book, Milpisi ventured off to examine Diata’s other pieces of art for clues.
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 25