Griots
A Sword And Soul Anthology
Edited by
Milton J. Davis
And
Charles R. Saunders
MVmedia, LLC
Fayetteville, Georgia
Copyright © 2012 by MVmedia, LLC.
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MVmedia/Griots: A Sword and Soul Anthology
Contents
The Soul In the Sword By Charles R. Saunders
A Gathering At The Meeting Tree By Milton J. Davis
Mrembo Aliyenaswa By Milton J. Davis
Awakening By Valjeanne Jeffers
Lost Son By Maurice Broaddus
In the Wake of Mist By Kirk A. Johnson
Skin Magic By Djeli A. Griot
The Demon in the Wall By Stafford L. Battle
The Belly of the Crocodile By Minister Faust
Changeling By Carole McDonnell
The General’s Daughter By Anthony Nana Kwamu
Sekadi's Koan by Geoffrey Thorne
The Queen, the Demon, and the Mercenary By Ronald T. Jones
Icewitch By Rebecca McFarland Kyle
The Leopard Walks Alone By Melvin Carter
The Three-Faced One By Charles R. Saunders
Griots Bios
To The Ancestors
A man alone cannot push a dhow into the sea.
―Swahili Proverb
The Soul In the Sword
By
Charles R. Saunders
A horizon, not a box. A frontier, not a niche. A wide space, not a narrow one. Those are some of the aspects of the branch of fantasy fiction that is coming to be known as “sword-and-soul.” The term has only been in existence for a few years. Full disclosure: I started the genre nearly forty years ago; and, much later, I coined its name.
I began writing for publication in an attempt to come up with a positive response to a problem I found troublesome. At that time, I was in my mid-20s, coming of age with my fellow members of the much-maligned baby-boom generation. A boom of another kind was going on then as well – or, more descriptively, a deluge of books either written by or derivative of Robert E. Howard, a pulp-magazine writer of the 1930s who had died during that decade.
Howard was the creator of the iconic character Conan of Cimmeria, and in the process he spawned a new kind of fantasy story, which was eventually dubbed “sword-and-sorcery.” Howard’s tales of Conan and other stalwarts such as Kull of Atlantis provided a heady brew of magic and mayhem, horror and heroism, warfare and wizardry. During his heyday, Howard’s readers couldn’t get enough of his output, which was prodigious. Catching the wave, others began to write similar stories, with varying degrees of success.
When the pulp era ended after World War II, Howard’s work and the genre he founded slipped into obscurity. It took a while for publishers of the paperback books that succeeded the pulps to pick up on the potential of sword-and-sorcery. When they finally did, Howard’s work received more attention after his death than it ever had during his short lifetime (He committed suicide at the age of 30 in 1936).
Enhanced through irresistibly eye-catching cover paintings by the great artist Frank Frazetta, paperbacks that were either “Conan” or “In the Tradition of Conan” became ubiquitous in bookstores and newsstands. I was in my late teens and early 20s when this publishing phenomenon occurred, and I was hooked from the get-go. I read all the sword-and-sorcery I could get my hands on. And my visits to the authors’ imaginary worlds were enjoyable – for the most part.
That lesser part, however, grated like a stone in my shoe. That stone was racism.
Robert E. Howard and his contemporaries were products of their time. Racism, in the form of white supremacy, was an integral part of the popular culture of the early decades of the twentieth century, and as such it pervaded pulp fiction. As a product of a later time during which the tenets of racism came under vigorous challenge, my enjoyment of fiction from past decades was often compromised by the racial attitudes I encountered in my reading. On some occasions, I simply let it slide. On others, I wrestled with resentment.
Then I discovered a way to resolve my dilemma.
Interest in African history and culture surged during the 1960s, and at the same time I was reading sword-and-sorcery and fantasy fiction, I was also absorbing heretofore-unknown information about a continent that was not as “dark” as its detractors made it out to be. And I realized that this non-stereotypical Africa of history and legend was just as valid a setting for fantasy stories as was the ancient and medieval Europe that served as the common default setting for everything from Conan to Lord of the Rings.
A character came into my head then: Imaro, a black man who could stand alongside mythical warrior-heroes like Beowulf and Hercules, as well as fictional creations such as Conan and Kull. Through determination of delusion – or perhaps both – I began to write stories about Imaro’s adventures in an alternate-Africa I called “Nyumbani,” from the Swahili word for “home.”
Though I didn’t know it at the time, my Imaro stories of the 1970s and novels of the 1980s were forming the foundation for sword-and-soul.
* * *
For a long time, I felt that I was alone in what I was doing ... kind of like a voice howling in the wilderness, only to hear Tarzan howl back. A few other writers, such as Mary C. Aldridge and Robert D. San Souci, placed African-themed fantasy stories in the same small-press magazines that published my work. But the audience for any of us seemed elusive.
Then, around the beginning of the 2000s, with the Imaro novels long since out of print, I discovered that I had more company than Id realized, such as Sheree Renee Thomas, editor of the Dark Matter anthologies; Amy Harlib, writer and interviewer; Carole McDonnell, author of Wind Follower; Brother Uraeus, creator of Jaycen Wise; Gregory Walker, author of the Memnon series; Mshindo Kuumba, artist extraordinaire, and many others.
As it turns out, more than a few people are writing African-based fantasy stories these days. And more non-stereotypic black characters are appearing in stories set in non-black milieus. The work of writers such as Joe Abercrombie (The First Law trilogy) and Paul Kearney (The Monarchies of God series) are examples of the latter trend. And I feel damn good about that.
The contact I cherish above all others, though, is the one I made in 2007 with Milton J. Davis. That contact was the beginning of a friendship that has led to our joint editorship of this anthology.
Milton is one of the most talented, creative, and energetic people I have ever known. Without having read or heard of my Imaro stories, he developed his o
wn alternate-Africa setting and wrote a pair of epic novels – Meji and Meji II – which tell the story of how the destiny of twin brothers separated at birth affects the fate of their continent, Uhuru. He has also written a novel about a merchant-warrior named Changa, who cuts a wide swath of derring-do on the East Coast of the Africa of our world during the time before European exploration and colonization.
Even through the middleman also known as the Internet, meeting Milton was like finding a previously unknown sibling – a “sword-and-soul brother.” I’m proud to have worked with him to make Griots a reality.
So, what in – or out of – the world is this thing called sword-and-soul?
* * *
The term came about during a conversation I had with Brother Uraeus. At one point, I said: “Yes, I’m writing sword-and-sorcery fiction. But considering the African-based setting, I ought to call it ‘sword, sorcery, and soul.’” That phrase seemed a bit awkward, though.
Then it hit me. “Or maybe it should be called ‘sword-and-soul.’”
Those three words sparked great enthusiasm in Uraeus, and I gave him permission to use it as the designator of his nascent publishing company, Sword & Soul Media. Since then, Sword & Soul Media has published two of my Imaro novels, along with a volume featuring Dossouye, my Black Amazon.
Sword-and-soul is a broad term, not a confining one. Essentially, it is fantasy fiction with an African connection in either the characters or the setting ... or both. The setting can be the historical Africa of the world we know, or the Africa of an alternate world, dimension or universe. But that’s not a restriction, because a sword-and-soul story can feature a black character in a non-black setting, or a non-black character in a black setting. Caveat: Tarzan of the Apes need not apply.
A sword-and-soul story may also be set in a future in which science and magic have become interchangeable, or one in which modern technology has long since been lost. Regardless of the setting, magic and heroism form the underpinnings of sword-and-soul.
Just as soul music can include everything from blues to hip hop, sword-and-soul encompasses everything from Imaro to ... well, go ahead and read the stories in this book and you’ll see.
A Gathering At The Meeting Tree
By
Milton J. Davis
There must be more. These four words drifted in and out of my thoughts as I typed the words of my first novel, Meji. Of course, I had no way of proving it. All my searching had turned up nothing. No matter how hard I looked, no one had ever written an African based sword and sorcery book.
But the scientist in me knew better. Ten years prior I’d submerged myself in African history, culture and mythology. Segu, the excellent historical fiction novel by Marse Conde sparked my imagination and my efforts. I had expected to find few books and sources but instead I was overwhelmed with information. Shifting through it all I realized I had discovered my passion and eagerly set about writing the type of stories I always wanted to read. This was when those four words first entered my head.
In 2005 I finally focused my efforts and began writing Meji. I pulled together my scattered notes and prose that had accumulated over twenty years, the four words still lingering in my head. Then it happened. I discovered a book titled Dark Matters. As I read the stories, I came across a story titled Gimmile’s Songs, a story about a female warrior woman named Dossouye penned by Charles R. Saunders. I immediately took to the internet, attempting to find out more about this writer. I came up with nothing. Years later as I worked on Meji I took to the internet on my periodic search and there he was. Nightshade Books had re-released Imaro and Charles R. Saunders was everywhere. I immediately purchased Imaro and was overjoyed. It was exactly what I had been searching for.
Once again, I sought him out and was finally able to meet him and came up empty. Then hope sprang forth again. Uraeus, a member of Black Super Hero started a thread announcing that Nightshade Books was dropping Imaro but that he was going to continue producing the books for Charles through Sword and Soul Media. I quickly contacted Uraeus who was kind enough to put me in contact with Charles. At that point a great friendship began and I learned that Charles had coined a name for what I wrote: Sword and Soul.
So, I was not alone, but the words still lingered. There must be more. And there were. As Charles and I released our works and networked through the Black Science Fiction Society and across the cyber universe we found them. Some were published writers delving in other genres; others were aspiring writers following the arduous path of publication. Soon we were exchanging notes, stories, critiques and opinions, reveling in the conversation and comradery. The next decision was obvious to me. There needed to be a meeting, a gathering of story tellers to celebrate sword and soul and display the diversity of interpretations.
And so, the idea of Griots was born. Between the covers of this book are 14 writers sharing their stories of sword and soul, each spinning a tale that helps define the genre and expand its boundaries. Accompanying them are 14 artists giving tangible interpretations of these stories. Their visions are not presented to limit those of the reader but to provide a foundation from which to expand.
Jeli. Jali. Gasere. Griot. Just as there are many words to describe the legendary African storytellers/historians, we present to you a wide range of voices and images to describe this emerging genre. The storytellers are gathered under the meeting tree. Let their voices stir your soul.
Mrembo Aliyenaswa
By
Milton J. Davis
Eager spectators crowded the bulwark of the Sada, packing the merchant dhow from stern to bow. Those that couldn’t find room on the deck hung from mast ropes and sat on the bulwark. Their eyes focused on two bare-chested men circling each other, their brown skin glistening with sweat. The taller man lumbered from side to side, his huge arms swaying as he tried to keep pace with his shorter opponent. He possessed a wide chest and a wider stomach sitting on legs that resembled thick tree trunks. His short-curled hair atop his head contrasted with the voluminous beard grazing his chest with each frustrating turn of his head.
The other man moved with martial grace, his body a chiseled muscular form. His smooth face and bald head told of his youth, but his deep brown eyes revealed experience beyond his years. He observed his opponent with the skill of a man used to such encounters, a man whose battles in his past usually ended in death. Luckily for the big man, this was not such an encounter.
“Stand still, Changa!” the big man bellowed. “How do you expect me to give you a hug if you keep flittering like a moth?”
The spectators laughed and Changa grinned. “I’m no fool, Yusef. Those arms were meant to hug tembos, not men, and certainly not women.”
Yusef lunged at Changa. Changa dodged to his left, slapping Yusef across the forehead with an open right hand. The big man stopped just short of plowing into the crowd of terrified bahari.
“Damn you, kibwana!” Yusef yelled. “Stand still! From Mogadishu to Mombasa they call you Mbogo, The Bull. All I see is a skittish calf.”
Changa laughed at the insult. He planted his feet, resting his hands at his waist.
“Come then. Let’s see if your clumsy hands can crush this little calf.”
The two inched towards each other, their arms extended. Their fingers touched then intertwined as they began a test of strength as old as time.
“Hah!” Yusef shouted. He immediately pressed down on Changa, tightening his great hands around Changa’s. A normal man would have crumbled under the massive man’s weight; a strong man would have buckled in seconds. Changa stood still, the only indication of exertion the rippling muscles under his taunt black skin. Yusef pressed harder and Changa remained unmoved. The giant lost his humor; he clenched his teeth and pressed harder, his arms shaking with effort. Changa remained unmoved. Every man on the dhow fell silent to the amazing test of strength playing out before them. None doubted Changa’s strength, but this display went far beyond their imagining.
While Yusef
and the others interpreted Changa’s silence as an unbelievable show of poise, the opposite was true. Changa concentrated with every pound of his muscle, fighting back Yusef’s onslaught. He was lapping at the brink of his endurance, waiting the right moment. He looked into his opponent’s face and determined the time was right.
Changa collapsed. A triumphant grin emerged through Yusef’s beard until he realized Changa wasn’t falling; he was rolling. He was too committed to pull back. Pain shot from his belly to his back as Changa drove his feet into Yusef. The big man was airborne, Changa’s face replaced by sails, seagulls and sky. His brief flight ended amidst a crowd of hands, feet, bodies and groans as he crashed among the unfortunate baharia on the deck.
“Mbogo!” the uninjured spectators cheered. Changa rolled to his feet then sauntered to Yusef and the pile of hapless victims beneath him.
“You were right,” Changa said as he massaged his sore arms and shoulders “You are stronger than me.”
“Are you done playing, Changa?” Kasim, the dhow captain walked between the two. The Sada sailors scurried to their chores at the sight of their captain, the others dispersing to their duties at the docks.
Changa looked down at Yusef, extending his hand. “Are we done?”
Yusef took Changa’s hand and Changa pulled him up to a sitting position.
“Yes, we are done...Mbogo,” he conceded, a defeated tone in his voice.
Kasim nodded. “Good. Belay wants to see you right away.”
Changa’s mood shifted from victorious to serious. He hurried below and washed himself, donned his cotton shirt and proceeded to the warehouse containing Belay’s office. The merchant sat hunched over his desk as always, studying his counting books.
“Bwana, you sent for me?” Changa asked.
Belay looked up, greeting Changa with a broad grin.
“Yes, Changa. Please, sit down.”
Belay leaned back in his chair and massaged his forehead.
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