by Kwame Mbalia
Prince of thieves? That was actually pretty cool.
The mines, not so much.
The elder ancestors floated in silence. Finally, the leader scratched his chin—so spirits itched?—and gestured at the diviner standing nearby. “What say you, my Amagqirha?”
The old woman never looked up. She sort of did this thing where she spoke and sang at the same time. If you’ve ever heard a preacher get excited in the middle of a sermon, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Her voice rang clear and high, surprising me—then again, Nana could seem small and weak, too, until she decided to tell you about yourself. But this woman, this Amagqirha, she never stopped moving to her own rhythm.
“This one has the blessing of gods and the spirit of the imbongi, Elder Fezile,” she said. “I can feel it. If he speaks, Isihlangu should listen.”
Murmurs went through the crowd of onlookers as the Amagqirha lifted her head and stared straight through me. Eyes as black as the obsidian dangling above our heads pinned me where I stood.
“Speak, imbongi. Speak.”
Her voice tumbled around inside my head as she slowly circled the ghostly ancestors, humming and rattling her beads. Every footstep kicked up a little cloud of dust that flashed silver above the stage. Shadows moved to her beat.
And then…then I felt it.
The story I needed to tell—she was humming it. My fingers started twitching and my foot started tapping.
The ancestors leaned close to one another and talked before coming to some decision.
Chief Elder Fezile looked at me. “Proceed” was all he said.
“May I…?” I asked, holding up my tied wrists. “I can’t tell a story without them. I promise I won’t hurt anyone.”
The chief gave a curt nod, and, with one swipe of her spear, Thandiwe cut my bonds.
I couldn’t help it—I grinned as I turned to the crowd.
Ayanna took one look at my face and groaned. “Don’t do too much,” she whispered.
“Naw, do the most, Bumbletongue,” Gum Baby said. “Gum Baby gonna just sit here and watch, but you go ahead and do the most.”
Their advice disappeared as the rhythm of the story swelled in my ears. What’s a song but a story told to a beat? I waited until the Amagqirha had made a full circle around the gathered ancestors. When I was sure of the rhythm, I joined in.
She hummed, and I stomped. She rattled, and I clapped.
A familiar buzzing grew in my fingertips, the sign that a story needed to be let out. I took a deep breath and concentrated, trying to make sure I got this right. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I reached out and grabbed some of the dust the Amagqirha had kicked up, and some of the shadows stretching across the stage. I pulled them into my fists and held them tight.
“Let’s say there are monsters,” I boomed into the near-silent mountain city. My eyes swept the crowd. The rhythm had caught on, and they were now clapping along.
That’s the power of the Anansesem, I realized. Giving the story to the listeners, so they can pass it on to others.
Anansesem shared not only the stories, but also the storytelling experience.
I smiled. “Let’s say there are monsters. Let’s say they exist. We say this because it’s true. Is it true?”
“Yes!” a child yelled before being shushed.
I pointed in the direction of the voice. “Of course it is! Monsters exist all around us. I say Abiyoyo…”
I threw some shadow and dust high into the air, and the crowd gasped. The clapping stopped, children shrieked, and more than a few adults backed away as a ten-foot giant appeared. Hulking, menacing, with eyes of blazing silver, Abiyoyo stomped around the stage, roaring silently at children he spotted.
“Listen to your parents, young ones,” I called, “or Abiyoyo will come for you. Or maybe the Evil Ones who chased Demane and Demazane!”
The giant faded into a corner, and I threw a little more story into the air. A boy and a girl sprang out of the dust cloud and raced through a forest of inky-black trees. Behind them, shadowy two-legged creatures gave chase, their mouths filled with shiny, razor-sharp teeth. The girl and the boy hid in a cave, and the hungry creatures ran on by, leaping off the stage and into the crowd.
More shrieks rang out, and then nervous laughter rippled through the audience as they realized the conjured creatures had disappeared.
“Yes,” I continued, “let’s say there are monsters.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. This next part was going to be difficult.
“Let’s say there’s a new monster. Something…something that doesn’t want your money or treasures. It doesn’t want to eat your children or dreams. No.”
I tossed a giant fetterling into the air, and the crowd went deathly silent.
“It wants it all.”
Thandiwe took a step forward and her arm trembled as she raised it to point at the iron monster. “I’ve seen this…this thing!” She looked at the ancestors on the stage. “I’ve seen it.”
“It hunts us,” I said, turning and stepping up next to her. “It doesn’t care if you’re from the Golden Crescent or from MidPass. It doesn’t care if you’re holed up in a thicket the size of Lake Michigan, or in a fortress inside the heart of a mountain. It will find you, your children, all your loved ones, and drag them back to where its boss awaits.”
“Its boss?” the elder ancestor said.
I nodded, then tossed the last—and biggest—fistful into the air.
An undefined shape, larger than John Henry, swirled above the stage. Shadows slipped toward it, as if it were a black hole of pure evil. As the form fed, it grew and grew, until it nearly covered the entire stage, and when it had gorged on all the shadows it could find, it turned and floated toward the crowd. At the last moment, just when it looked as if it would descend and begin ravaging the Ridgefolk, I stomped my feet and shouted at the same time:
“THE MAAFA!”
The monster burst into shadows that fled into the corners.
Someone screamed. When I looked around, I saw Gum Baby lying on the floor as if she had fainted. Chestnutt was fanning the little drama queen with her ears.
“But what is it? Why does it hunt us?” Another spirit, a woman with a large headwrap, leaned forward on her cane.
“How can we stop it?”
“What can we do?”
I raised my hands and the ancestors grew silent. “This thing hunts you…because of me.”
Rumbles of anger and confusion swept the space, but I pressed on. “I come from a place far from here called Alabama. I ripped a hole between our worlds when I damaged an old, powerful Bottle Tree. When I fell through the hole, something came with me. Something old. Something evil. A haint that I freed. Now it’s looking for me, and it’s riling up an old enemy of Alke from the depths of the Burning Sea—the Maafa.”
The ancestors gasped. From the looks on their faces, some—if not most—had been around to witness the battles between the gods and the Maafa. They whispered among each other, and I held up my hands.
“We have to stop these iron monsters—more and more are appearing in Alke, each bigger and eviler than the last, and if we don’t find Anansi and get him to fix the hole in the sky, they will overrun us. There will be no place any of us can hide.”
I dropped my hands and took a deep breath. The crowd murmured while the elders conferred with each other before the chief, Fezile, finally nodded and looked at me. “We’ve seen this hole in the sky. If it is indeed fueling the violent energy that is coursing through these ‘iron monsters,’ we would do well to continue as we have been recently. Remain hidden in the mountain. Lock our doors to all outsiders. Protect our children.”
A murmur swept through the crowd, with many nodding. Not all, however. Thandiwe looked unconvinced. But she didn’t challenge the chief. My shoulders slumped. This had been a long shot, trying to get the Ridgefolk to help. And I couldn’t really blame them.
“I understand,” I said. “Bel
ieve me, I do. But please listen to me—there is no hiding. These things will find you—all of you—even here.” I turned in a circle with my arms up, indicating the entire cavern.
“They even found us in the Thicket!” Chestnutt piped up.
“If you don’t want to lose more of your people, we must try,” I pleaded. “Please. This—everything, it’s…it’s my fault, and I have to fix it.”
When my voice cracked, Ayanna took over. “Nyame’s Story Box is the key. We think it’s here, and it’s the way to lure Anansi…”
Fezile looked as if he thought that was a foolhardy plan.
“It has to work,” I said, trying to put conviction and confidence into my words. “It just has to.” I don’t know if I was trying to convince the Ridgefolk or myself.
The elders remained silent for what seemed like forever. I had just about lost any hope of their helping us, when someone spoke up next to me.
“He gave it to us,” Thandiwe said quietly.
When I looked over, anger was written all over her face. “Anansi. He waltzed in here, with his charm and his compliments, and presented the Story Box to us. ‘A gift,’ he said. ‘For better relations,’ he said. It was a trick!” She spat the words out with a scowl. “Coward. He was running away!”
Thandiwe glanced at me, then turned to the elders. “Honored ancestors, we must return Nyame’s Story Box to its rightful place. Let the warriors of MidPass take it back, find Anansi, and make their homes safe again. We would want the same for ourselves.”
Shouts of agreement echoed throughout the mountain, growing louder as more children and adults yelled their approval. The chorus grew to a rolling thunder of support, and it felt as if Isihlangu was shaking beneath our feet.
The chief elder turned to the other spirits of the Ridgefolk and conferred. I stepped back next to Ayanna and Chestnutt, and Gum Baby sat up groggily and peered up at me.
“Wha—what happened? What’s all the noise about?”
I smiled. “Because you’re awesome, that’s what.”
“Oh.” She yawned. “Tell Gum Baby something she don’t already know.”
I snorted, and Ayanna and Chestnutt laughed. Thandiwe overheard and rolled her eyes as well. She started to say something, but the ancestors broke their ghostly huddle and returned to their floating semicircle.
“It is decided.” The chief elder held up his hands for complete silence, then nodded. “We will—”
A chest-thumping roar shook the mountain, sending dust trickling down on everyone’s heads.
We all froze.
Then a little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders pointed at something above us and screamed. More people in the crowd began shouting and gesturing as well.
Ayanna’s eyes grew huge. She grabbed my shoulders and shouted, “Tristan!”
I whirled around, ready for anything.
Well, almost anything.
“HOW…? WHAT…IS THAT?”
Ayanna shoved me forward. “Stop yammering and fix it! You called him, you send him away!”
The giant shadow of Abiyoyo was stomping around the back of the stage. It swiped at the ancestral spirits, trying to claw their shimmering forms.
“Don’t worry!” I called out. “It’s just a—”
An arm slashed down viciously, and Ayanna barreled into my shoulder, sending us tumbling.
Deep claw marks gouged the obsidian stage where we’d just been standing.
“Just a what, flyboy?” Ayanna grunted as she stood up. “Just a story?”
I shook my head in disbelief as Abiyoyo roared another challenge. The elders tried to flee, but they seemed tethered in place. The Ridgefolk surrounding the stage scattered left and right, fleeing back to the safety of their homes.
“Tristan!” Ayanna shouted. “Do something!”
“Do what?” I yelled back. My hands felt like they’d fallen asleep with the story still tingling inside of them, and I shook them as I searched for a solution. The charms on my bracelet jingled. I could definitely use their help now….
Wait. Anansi’s story thread. I could still feel it—the rhythm. Normally, it faded after I finished shaping a story. But now…electric energy still pounded up my spine and down to my fingertips. Abiyoyo’s story wasn’t complete.
“Gum Baby, let’s go!” I shouted, picking her up and setting her on my shoulder. Then I sprinted across the stage toward where Abiyoyo stalked the Amagqirha.
The Amagqirha held her beaded skirt off the floor and circled the stage in a half-run, keeping the ancestors connected to us as Abiyoyo chased her, stomping and clawing as he went. I dodged between ancestors, apologizing as I ran through their ghostly chairs and stools.
Someone joined me, and I glanced over to see Thandiwe joining the pursuit, her spear drawn.
“Why doesn’t she break the connection?” I shouted. “Can’t she, I don’t know, hang up the spirit phone?” The Amagqirha continued to speak in her humming voice, naming the elders and their lineages. She hopped over one of the guards’ kieries and dashed to the other side of the stage, all without losing concentration.
Impressive.
“Gum Baby,” I shouted, still running. “I have a plan! Can you slow down the monster?”
“Gum Baby ain’t—”
“The feet—throw sap at its feet!”
On cue, the giant tried to stomp on the Amagqirha. Gum Baby made an Oh! face, then saluted, flinging sap everywhere.
“Ooh, Gum Baby understands. Gum Baby picking up what you’re putting down. She smells what you’re cooking. Gum Baby hears—”
“Gum Baby! Just do it!”
“Oh, right!” She hopped off my shoulder and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, dusty feet! Down here. Yeah, right here, big boy. You like stepping on folks? Step on this. Sap attack!”
Sap splattered across the stage, and Gum Baby cartwheeled away. Abiyoyo slowed to a stop, frustrated by the Amagqirha’s surprising nimbleness, and his beady eyes swiveled toward the tiny loudmouth. He lumbered after her, but when a blurry foot stepped into one of Gum Baby’s sticky traps, he was caught fast. I saw my chance.
“Hey!” I shouted. The rhythm tingled as I pulled small toddler-like shadows from the corners of the mountain. I dressed them in glittering clothes made of silver dust and sent them skipping around the giant’s ink-black feet.
“What are you doing?” Ayanna shouted, cowering under a rocky ledge and cradling Chestnutt. “Children? You’re sending children against a giant?”
“Trust me,” I said. “Do you remember how to keep him away?”
“Tristan—”
“I’m serious!”
Abiyoyo strained, and with a wrenching twist and another roar, he pulled free of the sap.
Thandiwe stopped short behind me. “Um, it was—oh elders, help us—it was…the lullaby!” She snapped her fingers. “We sang it every night.”
“Right!” I said. More and more shadow children danced out of the corners of Isihlangu. They pranced and whirled in circles around the stage. I gasped from the effort and dropped to a knee. “We need everyone in the mountain to help. It’s the only way.”
“Everyone?” Thandiwe asked.
“Everyone. You all spread the word. I’ll keep him distracted here.” Before Ayanna and Thandiwe could argue, I ran to the center of the stage. The little shadow children parted before me and then followed, skipping along.
I hoped this would work.
“Abiyoyo!” I shouted, my hands cupped around my mouth.
The giant paused his efforts to scoop the shadow children into his mouth.
“Abiyoyo!”
Every time I shouted his name, he flinched, like hearing it caused him pain.
Abiyoyo’s story is pretty simple. Parents make their children sing his name softly over and over every night before they go to bed, and then it’s lights-out, don’t make a sound. If you don’t obey and go to sleep, the hungry giant will stomp to your house and steal you. And he won’t be
taking you to play hide-and-seek.
More like fry-and-eat, you get me?
I was betting everything on that lullaby.
The shadow children linked arms and danced in a giant circle around the stage, with a second circle and then yet another inside of the first. Each ring moved in a different direction until a dizzying black-and-silver spiral swirled around us. It left the two of us, the giant and me, face-to-face. Beady silver eyes to handsome, intelligent brown eyes. Super-sharp silver teeth to…well, I brushed my teeth pretty well. Most nights.
ANYWAY…
Abiyoyo spun around with a confused roar. He probably couldn’t choose which kid to snack on first. Before he made up his mind, I had the shadow children cup their hands around their silent mouths.
“Now, Ayanna!” I shouted.
High above us, Ayanna clung to Thandiwe’s back as they rode up through the mountain on the warrior girl’s forebear. At my signal, Ayanna waved frantically at people’s doors, and Thandiwe called to them.
None of them opened.
Abiyoyo roared a challenge and stomped toward me. His silver claws scraped stone as he stretched out to grab me, and drops of black drool sizzled as his mouth opened wide to swallow me whole. I flinched out of reach.
“Abiyoyo!”
Claws the size of my arm barely missed slicing me like a loaf of bread. Abiyoyo jerked away as the mountain echoed with his name. The shadow children continued to spin in circles, and as soon as I realized I was still in one piece, I sent them twirling faster and faster.
“Abiyoyo!”
This time my call was echoed above me. Boys and girls stood in their open doorways and shouted at the giant. Even some of their parents and grandparents got into the act.
“ABIYOYO!”
The giant backed away, but my shadow children kept him hemmed in so he couldn’t escape. They leaped onto one another’s shoulders and swarmed him as now the entire mountain—ghostly ancestors, Ridgefolk, Midfolk, and a boy from Chicago—shouted the giant into submission.
