For a moment, he stood over the lifeless body, the saabou still wrapped around his powerful arm.
“That which gives power will rob you of it,” warily regarded Sangara.
He loosed his grip of the talisman and turned to the fountain. He still felt the vigor of the previous fountains return and triumphantly strode over to his spouting reward.
* * *
He found this fountain more ornately decorated than the others. Gems of sparkling brilliance and hue danced within a basalt arch. The figure of a mighty limbed man of obsidian exquisitely carved underneath, a sword in one hand and a lion’s head in the other. His chest was covered in armor, which detailed the light quilted coat of the Dens and the shining scales of the Xaftaangaas. An ivory torc encircled his neck and gold armlets adorned outstretched arms. A makasutu’s head hung underneath, with gaping jaws and teeth as white as the snow-capped Kolourou Mountain. Diamond-sparkling brilliance spouted from its uninviting mouth. The basin from which it filled was of the most precious of ivory, expertly carved, and etched with the heroes of ages past; The seven Hunter-Lords of the Manden city-states, the first buur of the Xaftaan kingdom, and even the Daehan sinuirang who traveled to the North and showed them the might of the ox-bow. All these and more decorated the basin of this mystic mountain shrine. The gushing water splashed and flowed, but never fully overflowed from its cream-colored basin.
Bracing himself on the edge, he bent his back low and gorged himself on its sweet and bitter flavor. Almost immediately, the vomiting mouth stopped and the draining waters emptied.
“No man will take more than he needs from the Fountain of Daraja,” replied the ancient woliyo. “And you will have exactly what has been taken.”
Then as smoke from a waking volcano the enchanted mist belched forth from the crocodilian maw, enshrouding Sangara in blinding mist within his entombed surroundings. Though the ensuing mist screened his vision, he no longer panicked nor feared the unknown menace that he sensed lurked within. A sudden rush of wind and a painful sensation encircled his throat. The blow dropped him to the floor, stunning him. He was not sure, but the figure of Youssou seemed to be drifting in and out of the smoky wafts.
“Here is a new charm. A torc of pure ivory with the incantations of Nakula Funo. To keep your body parts in place,” laughed the woliyo.
His dirty fingers gingerly fingered his new neck charm. The torc encircled his muscled neck terminating at the ends in perfectly shaped globes. He felt the hard lines and deep cuts scrawled on the yellowish-white surface. He could not make out what the etchings said or the language it was written in, but he deemed them powerful enchantments.
As he began to rise, a leather-bound grip smacked into his hand. The feel excited him and his knuckles tightened around what he knew to be a sword.
“You will need this for your return,” explained Youssou. “It is not of the same sorcery as your saabou, but it will aid you in battle.”
“What battle? Youssou, what battle do you speak of? Where in Farro’s name are you? Youssou! Youssou!”
Sangara’s shouts rang hollow throughout the hazy-white shroud. He dared not move, but kept his arm stretched out. His shining blade pointing forward.
* * *
A short time passed before a cool breeze brushed over his crested skull. He was outside again. Though the mist still enveloped him, he no longer sensed the blackened dampness of caves. He could now smell the freshness of the savannah plains and crisp air of the Fouta Juma winds. He took a few cautious steps forward and found the ground soft and carpeted underfoot. The grassy bottom was now visible to him. He saw his spear lying a few feet from him and heard the commotion and chaos of pitched battle. Wasting little time, he grabbed his spear as he ran in the direction of the familiar sounds, the haze clearing at each pounding footfall.
A swirl of mist vanished in the onrushing wake of Sangara’s emergence. Everywhere he turned the din of battle thundered throughout the wind. The Ramaasou fought with the heart and ferocity of heroes, but their numbers made more the difference in the confusion of biting steel and bloodied shields. The fama of Kindou was beset on all sides with only two of his retinue, holding high their shields and valiantly defending their chief by his overturned chariot. His father and clan brothers were scattered all over the field mixing with Cisse, Ba-nde, and Ramaasou within the homicidal tumult. Even his cousin, Zambele “of the Ten Blows”, was encircled and quickly losing the power behind the mighty swings of his ivory club. Sangara knew that if Sannou fell the reavers would redouble their efforts and clear the field of Manden.
Limbs flexed with cruel purpose as he pierced the fray. And the crash of thunder announcing the coming of Daan Toura’s son. He dashed straight into the rabble that surrounded Kindou’s beleaguered chief. His spear, well-missed and hungry, sang through the air impaling a reaver through his spine. His sword, newly–gifted and keen, tore open backs and breasts with barbarous gaiety. Sprinkles of light rain fell from the once sun-decked sky, baptizing the coming of Sangara Aarn-Toura.
The rising and falling of Sangara’s singing steel stole scarlet veils and floating limbs from the most reluctant of combatants. He tore life from veterans and scoundrels, disfiguring both the lucky and the luckless. He was a man possessed with oxen-strength and lion-speed. No matter how many Ramaasou rushed to greet him, he addressed them all with ruinous blows and swift sword-sweeps. The sword-labor and battle-bliss possessed his very soul as torrents of pelting rain drove him to feats of horror and butchery that surpassed even the most savage god. A crimson stained giant summoned by the despair of Kindou—he had become Farro, the son of Mangala—the bearer of vengeance.
Soon the great Ramaasou horde lay sprawled and disfigured on the wet soggy field. Droplets of rain rippled in blood-pools and ran down sword blades imbedded in armored chest and muddied earth, as resting bodies heaved out fading breaths.
The moments crept by while the clans of Da Boura gathered wounded comrades and brothers. The Fama of Kindou, decorated with the bruises and cuts of hard fighting, approached Sangara followed by the weary survivors and a lone retainer.
“You there! This victory is yours to be sure. What clan claims you?” asked the chief.
“I am of the Touras, son of Daan Binoudjan-Toura and great-grandson of Hadang Dafee-Toura,” replied Sangara.
“You come from a mighty circle. We knew your great-grandsire as Hadang ‘of the Hammer-Spear’. He was well renowned for his battle-skill and stout-heart. The djelis of Kindou would sing me to bed with tales of his prowess. It is only right that you receive an honor-name. Sangara ‘of the Victories’”, proclaimed the fama.
It was then that a mighty cheer rang out through foothills as the surviving Manden looked upon Sangara’s heroic frame, wet with rain and blood, “Hail Sangara! Hail the mighty Sangara “of the Victories”! Thunder-Son of the Touras, the Hammer of Da Boura!” And the heavens thundered with the triumphant roar as Mangala, the One God, joined in unison.
Yet, Sangara could not revel in the merriment, for as he saw some of his clan brothers and friends among the surrounding helmets and mail, he could not see the regal bearing of his father, the tallest among the Bourans. As the cheering swelled, he pushed his way through the jubilant host to see if his father was among the wounded. But as he emerged, he saw to his left the carcass of his father’s manly build, laid low by a jutting spear; his head cruelly separated from its torso; and around him were the lifeless forms of Fakoli and Nfansu. Their blood mixing and staining the grass while their glazed eyes stared skyward from torn, ruined bodies.
Heavy-hearted, Sangara gently ran a hand over his father’s eyelids, closing them in eternal sleep. The honor-torc felt heavy and guilt-ridden as it sat secure around his bent neck. Mournful reflection engulfed the once fiery spirit as he gazed upon the lone head of his most-loved clansmen. Aloft, a great black eagle soared, bringing the jubilant warriors to reverent silence as they reeled from its size and power. However, Sangara already knew the beast and on
ly he could understand its booming call.
“A blood-price is paid for the last fount-boon. He who seeks the vain destiny of gods, forfeits the humble comfort of mortals. That is the price for receiving the Waters of Glory. Sangara ‘of the Victories’.
Skin Magic
By
Djeli A. Griot
Makami stumbled, almost falling. The orange-colored cat he had nearly run over went still, the hair on its back raising. Its eyes reflected in the night, seeming to ask what bit of chance had caused their paths to cross in the sand-ridden backstreets of this small town, which only rats and shadows should have called home.
The answer came at the sound of heavy footsteps from somewhere far too near. Makami resumed his run, turning a corner while daring a glance back. The empty streets did not fool him; he was still being hunted. Who his pursuers were and their purpose in this mad chase was what baffled him.
He had noticed them earlier, like two jackals creeping after prey. They kept their distance, but their intent was too obvious. Makami had been a thief once—in fact, a rather good one. He had followed those he marked whole days, tracing their routines until he could predict their every move, waiting until they were most vulnerable and distracted to take his prize. It was done so seamlessly; most were not aware of the theft until he had long departed. Others however were not so artful—choosing to cudgel their victims senseless or leave a blade between their ribs, before seizing what they wanted.
Still, wrapped in torn and tattered clothing, Makami could find little to mark him as worthy prey. Unless these thieves were so desperate, they now took to robbing paupers and beggars, these men hunted something more. But what? Had some merchant gotten wise to food he daily snatched at market? Unlikely. He could manage such simple sleight-of-hand in his sleep. Besides, the scraps were barely noticeable—certainly not enough to keep his belly from crying to him each night. No, these jackals were after more. He only wished he knew what.
The pain was sudden. One moment he was running, the next he was on his back. Bits of light danced before his eyes and he scrambled to get his bearings. Lifting a hand to his brow he felt something warm, trickling from where he knew a wide gash had opened upon his dark skin. Blood. Something had struck him as he rounded a corner, right across the face, with enough force to send him crashing down.
Dazed, a dark form took shape in front of him. It was a man—a very big man. His rounded head was cleanly bald, making it look as if his entire body were covered in one sheet of ebony. He gazed down with a scowl, pulling his spread out features closer. Bulbous and stocky, he had shoulders like an ox and meaty arms that Makami guessed were just as strong. In one hand he held a misshapen staff of wood crowned with a thick knot. Long dark cloth encircled his waist, covering his legs and coming to his ankles. His torso was left bare—save for two hide straps that crossed his chest. Up to three knives were tucked inside, their blades gleaming like sharp teeth. Little doubt about it, Makami thought grimly, this was definitely a jackal.
“Stay down,” he growled, lifting his cudgel threateningly. His breath was labored and his massive chest heaved with considerable effort. “Should hit you again for putting us on such a chase.” He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Over here! I have him!”
Still too dazed to turn around, Makami waited until the new arrivals came into his field of vision. Two more men. The jackal pack was complete. One was muscular, dressed much like his larger companion. He paced the small space, dull yellowish eyes threatening danger. The third man bent to his haunches, his dingy tunic parting just below the knees as he balanced his slight weight. He ran a hand across the triangular patch of hair atop his scalp, smooth brown forehead furrowing in thought. His bright inquisitive eyes remained fixed on Makami—as if trying to discern something. After a moment he broke into a grin, displaying perfect white teeth unnaturally large for his wiry frame.
“Now that wasn’t so hard,” he said. “Good thinking Ojo, leaving you out here ahead.” He continued to grin at Makami, which seemed even brighter than the gold-hooped earrings he wore in each ear. “Didn’t know there were three of us eh?”
Makami didn’t answer. This was gloating, not a question. These men were decidedly not thieves. They all spoke trader’s tongue, each tinged with differing accents. So they weren’t locals either.
“Still say we should have waited,” the big man grumbled. Makami noted something in his voice. Was it...worry? “We were warned—”
“Oh, stop your old woman talk Ojo,” the smaller man said impatiently, coming to his feet. “Doesn’t look like much to me and we took him easy enough. We’ll keep him locked tight for the next few days.” A new light came into those bright eyes, reminding Makami of a ferret. “Or, maybe we might get more for him ourselves . . .”
Makami frowned. Get more for him? Were these men slavers?
“I don’t know Matata,” the big man said. Yes, there was definite worry there. “What do you think Jela?”
Their silent companion only shrugged; those yellow eyes trained on Makami. “Matters not to me.” His accent was so thick it was obvious these lands were foreign to him. And for the first time Makami glimpsed his teeth—each of them filed to sharp points, giving his mouth the appearance of a shark. “Whichever one brings us the greater payment.” He pulled one of the knives strapped to his chest, aiming a deeply curved blade directly at Makami. “You. Show it to me.”
Makami stared up at the man perplexed. Show him? He shook his head, not understanding.
“I will not ask you again,” the man warned, his voice betraying an edge as sharp as his cruel-looking blade. “Show me what lies beneath, what is on your chest—I want to see it myself.”
The blood drained away from Makami’s face at the man’s words. How could these men know about what he had taken such great effort to conceal? And if they did, to ask such a thing, were they mad? Beads of sweat broke out across his skin as for the first time, he truly became frightened.
The man scowled deeply, displaying his sharpened teeth. With his free hand he delivered a blow, snapping Makami’s head back and filling his mouth with fresh blood. Suddenly numerous hands were upon him. A blade flashed and there was the sound of cutting cloth. Summoning what strength was left in him Makami attempted to twist away from his attackers. But the big man was true to his earlier threat, rapping the back of his skull once with the cudgel. The blow crumpled him, leaving his head dizzy with new pain. Listless, he felt as the shirt that covered him was pulled and ripped until it lay at his waist in tatters. He was left on his knees; chest now bare as his captors stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“Oja!” the big man exclaimed in his native tongue. “Curse my eyes! Are they moving?”
Makami closed his eyes, not needing to look down at his chest to know what the man was talking about. They were markings, crimson lines and arcs etched into a circle upon his dark skin. And like always, they were moving—sliding across one another in a chaotic dance, spinning about a hollow center as if searching for order. He could feel them, whether awake or in slumber, always moving just beneath his skin. They had become a part of him—his own never-ending curse.
The muscular man, the one they called Jela, came forward, pointing the edge of his blade directly at the markings.
“No,” Makami pleaded. “Please. Do not . . .”
“See here Jela,” the smaller Matata laughed. “He thinks you will gut him like a goat.”
The muscular man grunted. “He is worth more alive than dead. Only wanted to see what all this trouble was over.” His dull yellowish eyes followed the crimson markings that continued their peculiar dance. Grabbing Makami by the chin, he lifted his head until their gazes met. “How did you come across such a thing?” he asked. “How do you make them move?” Getting no answer his tone became derisive. “Cease your trembling. We are not the ones you should fear.”
Makami glared back at the man. Fear them? No, he did not fear these men—he feared for them.
Already the markings etched into his chest had begun to move faster. They burned now, the pain building quickly until it felt like hot irons seared his skin. The arcs and lines were coming together, placing themselves into a pattern like a puzzle. His captors stared at the markings, mesmerized by the display. He tried to speak to them, to warn them to run, but the agony that now consumed him stole his speech. As the markings finally settled and went silent, he knew it was already too late.
“What is this?” the muscular man whispered. He brought the tip of his blade to touch the new symbol that the markings had formed onto Makami’s chest. The knife pushed through the pattern with ease. What should have been human skin rippled as if it were water. The man quickly pulled his hand back, those yellowish eyes going wide. And then the nightmare began, again.
Makami felt the thick tentacle shoot from his chest, and watched as it wrapped itself around the man’s neck. This part was always painful, and he screamed out now. More of the tentacle pushed out of him, a dull grey fleshy mass that reminded him of an octopus, only much larger. It squeezed tighter around the man’s muscular neck, lifting him off the ground. Those yellowish eyes bulged as he dropped his knife, fingers clawing in vain at the coiling appendage while his legs kicked wildly. Behind him, his companions only stared in horror, backing away slowly—none daring to come to his aid. The doomed man let out a choked gasp of spittle and blood which was followed by an audible crack. His head fell to one side, hanging limply, looking like a swollen bit of rotten fruit. The rest of his body twitched in spasms as if celebrating its sudden and short-lived freedom, before going still.
Griots Page 9
