Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  “That dog Zaba tried to trade me moth eaten cloths for near twice their worth,” she said, changing the subject. “But I bested him in the end. He parted with them for far less, and I received several jars of sweet oil as well—for nothing more than a few cones of salt. A worthy trade I think.”

  Master Dawan nodded in appreciation, turning to Makami with a grin. “My daughter’s skills at haggling surpassed my own long ago.” He rose to his feet. “I will make the arrangements for Zaba’s goods. If you will, see to friend Anseh.”

  Makami watched the old man walk away, leaving him with his eldest daughter. The woman continued to sip her tea slowly, as if he were not there. After a long awkward bout of silence, he opened his mouth to speak, but once again she beat him to it.

  “Father is fond of strays,” she said, never looking to him. “Most do not last three days. Some less than two. It is the gift of free food and drink they are after, not true work. Stay on more than three days, and I will be impressed. Attempt to steal from us or take advantage of my father’s generosity, and I will send you back to the streets with less fingers than you arrived. Touch any of my sisters, and you will lose more than that.” Finishing her drink, she set the cup down and rose to her feet. “Now come, let us see if there is a way to rid you of that unbearable stench.”

  As she began to walk away, Makami hurried to follow. He did not doubt the sincerity of the woman’s insults, or her threats. But fortune to him was rare in these times, and he was grateful for whatever form it took.

  *

  Three days passed. Then six. Then more than thrice that number. And Makami remained. The work was tiresome. He hauled heavy goods, combed the tangled mats from the baushanga’s thick fur, and toiled at varied tasks from morning until the sun set. It was the kind of work he had shunned in favor of a life as a skilled thief. But after all his recent troubles, there was something about the simplicity of it all that brought a brief moment of ease.

  Master Dawan was true to his word, providing food and drink—and endless stories—for his labor. And he had provided clothing and as well as shelter. Makami now dressed in loose trousers and a long white shirt. He covered himself in the blue robes familiar to the desert people, and had even taken to donning the afiyah veil, especially concealing himself when they went into town. He did not allow himself to be lulled into complacency by this small reprieve. Somewhere out there, were men who hunted him for dark purposes. And as long as he had to remain here, he hoped to put them off his trail.

  In fact, he had done a great deal to change his look. He had shaved his bushy hair, leaving his scalp bare—opting instead for a beard which he wished would hurry and grow thicker. Reliable meals and hard work had filled him out some, bringing back his slender but muscular body. Cleaned up, he looked a world apart from the vagrant that had first been brought to Master Dawan’s tents. And the old man’s daughters had taken notice. Now and then he caught them glancing at him as he worked, and whispering to each other before breaking into laughter. At first, he had thought he was the object of one of their jokes, until one of the young women had blushingly slipped a bracelet of threaded blue stones onto his wrist—a signal of courtship. He didn’t delude himself into thinking any of them actually thought of him as worthy of marriage; the daughters of even a poor trader could do much better. But he had proven himself at least attractive enough in their eyes to play in the game of mock courtship young Amazi indulged in.

  Of course, he had hidden away the blue stones quickly. He did not want Master Dawan to believe he had any foul intent upon his daughters. And Kahya’s threats still lingered in his ears. If the eldest daughter was impressed at his having lasted so long, she never showed it. The most she ever spoke to him were new orders and work tasks, ignoring flatly any of his attempts at conversation. Still, the days among the trader and his daughters were the most peaceful he had known for some time. The nights, however, were another matter.

  The markings on his chest never ceased their movements. And at night they seemed to become worse, a burning weight that lay upon him. They writhed about so furiously at times, he could not drift away to sleep. And when slumber did finally claim him, only terrible visions came. Some of them were from the past—like the angry drunk who had followed him after a night of gambling, intent on fighting or doing worse, torn apart by the winged monstrosity that had flown from within the strange markings. Or the cutthroats that had attempted to rob him, slashed to pieces by the claws of a beast he had unwittingly unleashed. And of course, Kesse was always there, sweet Kesse who he could not save from the evil that lived inside him. Other visions were of his fears, where vile things with dozens of legs and endless mouths crawled out of him like an army of insects, devouring Master Dawan and his daughters as they slept. Those dreams more than any sent him awake, and he would lay there, eyes wide open, waiting for the dawn

  It was some twenty-eight days later that they finally picked up and began their trek into the vast, hot sands. With the baushanga laden with goods they set upon a path Master Dawan claimed had been used by the Amazi for generations beyond measure. Makami had never seen so much sand, like an endless ocean that Master Dawan aptly called the Desert Sea. He himself could discern no path. Each way looked much like the next. But the old man seemed to know his way, putting names to sand dunes, and tracking their movements by the sun in the day and the stars by night.

  For Makami, his first few days had been spent suffering from what the old man called “sun sickness.” The relentless heat of the desert was unlike anything Makami had ever endured, and he had been forced to ride upon the back of a baushanga to keep from passing out. After a few days however, his endurance improved. And soon he was laboring under the scorching sun with surprising ease.

  His days followed a familiar routine. He awoke to feed the baushanga, see to their needs, sat down to a meal with Master Dawan and his daughters and then helped pick up the tent to continue their trek. Most of his time he spent listening to Master Dawan recount endless tales. The old man seemed to always have something new, and never repeated himself. For a long while all seemed tranquil, until the storm.

  Master Dawan claimed he had sensed it coming, and had ordered them to pitch their tents in a circle, placing the baushanga on the outside. Even as they tied down their dwellings the normally inert desert filled with a brisk wind that only grew fiercer with each passing moment. By the time night had fallen they were in the midst of a raging sand storm that blotted out even the moon, turning the already dark night into an impenetrable blackness.

  Outside, his veil wrapped about him to ward off the stinging sand, Makami checked upon the slumbering baushanga. Stripped of their packs, they curled their great shaggy bodies into balls, hiding their heads from the winds and acting as a buffer against the storm. Still, Makami had to go out and check upon them several times, to make sure the beasts were still properly tied down. Master Dawan claimed baushanga had been known to wander off in the middle of sandstorms. Disoriented they could travel so far it would take days to find them again. Making certain their harnesses remained fastened about them he fed each a bit of pinkish fruit Master Dawan had said would keep them peacefully at rest. Barely lifting their heads against the sharp elements, they managed to down the fleshy fruit in noisy wet crunches between their block-like teeth.

  Finishing his task, Makami picked up the oil lamp he had set beside him—the only light available in the thick sand-filled gloom. The winds were so strong he had to push hard against them, lest they knock him over. Stopping at his tent he lifted the lamp to look at the large symbol painted on the canvas. Smeared in goat’s blood, it was a ward against evil Master Dawan had insisted placed on all their tents. He claimed that storms often brought out demons that dwelled in the deep desert, things that crept up while you slept and drained all your blood or enticed men to wander from their dwellings to their deaths with haunting songs. Whether the old man was merely superstitious, Makami did not know. But he had accepted the ward all the same. H
e knew that monsters and demons were all too real.

  Rubbing at his chest he walked into his tent, pushing close the flap behind him. Since the storm had begun, the markings on his chest had started to move about—much more than usual. It troubled him. He had long ago decided, were he to lose control again, he would abandon Master Dawan and his family and flee headlong into the desert, hoping to spare them from any danger. If it came to that, he would do so now, even in this storm. Better that than bring these good people harm.

  Unveiling, he shook out sand from his afiyah before laying it flat upon the blankets he usually slept upon. He pulled off his shirt, dusting it off and throwing it to the ground. Standing there, with only the flickering lamp for light, he looked down to the arcs and lines which continued their odd movement across his skin. Putting a finger to them he traced their movements, as if touching them would somehow bring him insight. So, engrossed he soon became, that he did not notice the figure entering his tent until too late.

  “I wanted to remind you to wake up early, before the dawn, to push away the sand from the baushanga—”

  Makami turned in surprise, as Kahya strode through the flap he had left partially open. She carried a lamp and was wrapped in dark cloth. At sight of him she stopped speaking, her eyes going wide. With a silent curse beneath his breath he realized that he was still facing her, bare-chested and wearing only his flowing trousers. It took a moment—too long a moment—for his mind to tell his body to turn his back. And he knew immediately, she had seen. The lamp he had was small, but so was his tent, and it illuminated the space all too well.

  “What is that?” he heard her ask breathlessly. Makami closed his eyes, cursing to himself deeply now, praying the woman would go away. Those thoughts were dashed as her hand touched upon his bare back.

  “Stop jumping!” she admonished at his reaction. “Those markings on your skin—let me see!” When he did not respond, she released an indignant breath and pulled his shoulder hard, with more strength that he thought her capable. He turned to face her and she lifted her lamp to his chest, bending down to gaze at the markings in wonder.

  “They move!” she breathed. Looking up to him, her dark eyes were wide. “How did you come by this? Did you make them yourself?”

  “No,” Makami managed to answer. “This wasn’t my doing.” He released a sigh. “It would be too hard to explain.”

  She gazed at him oddly, with a look that was different than her usual dismissive demeanor—as if only noticing him for the first time.

  “And you can make them move,” she said.

  “What?” he asked confused. “No, not me. They move on their own.”

  Kahya wrinkled her brow. “Nonsense, the markings never move on their own.”

  Setting her lamp upon the floor she turned her back to him. And then, to his surprise, began to disrobe. The dark cloth that covered her slipped past her shoulders, falling about her arms and her waist, revealing her bare back. Pushing her hair to the front, she tilted her head to him slightly.

  “Watch,” she said.

  Makami looked down to her back. A series of lengthy twisting marks covered its length like vines upon her dark skin. They looked much like the inked designs her sisters wore on their hands, with one remarkable difference. These markings moved.

  He almost took a step back in shock, blinking to make certain he wasn’t seeing things. But no, the markings were moving. They didn’t circle and dance about like the ones on his chest, but they slithered about, seeming to grow and vanish only to reappear again, like thin serpents upon her skin. And then just like that, they went suddenly still. Finishing her display, the woman turned to him, holding her robes to her chest.

  “You’ve never met anyone else with the gift?” she asked curiously. Makami stared at her perplexed. Gift?

  She moved towards him, reaching a hand for his chest. He flinched slightly but did not pull back when her fingers touched the markings on his skin, slowly tracing their movements.

  “I had thought I was the only one as well,” she said, “until I met another. She was a woman, older than me by perhaps a few seasons. She too had the gift. The markings she wore covered her whole body, even her face. And she too could make them move.”

  “What is it?” Makami found himself asking. He looked down to his chest where her hand still lingered. “What are they?”

  “Skin magic,” Kahya said. “That’s what the woman called it. She said only few were born to it, a magic woven into our very skin. Patterns like the ones we wear, marked into our skin, can bring that magic alive. I first learned of the gift when I was young. I thought my ability was to only make the art I worked into my skin move. She showed me however, that it could do more.”

  “More?” Makami asked. His heart pounded. Could the answers he had sought have been right here all this time? Did the gods delight in teasing him so?

  “It allows us to work magic.” The woman smiled slightly. “Sometimes I am able to create patterns that allow me to not feel the heat of the sun. Or heal a slight sickness. Or speak with my thoughts. Once I even managed to make water spring out of the sand. The woman said that with time I could learn to do even more—fantastic things. But I have no need for such power. I am kept satisfied by my small magics.” She looked up to him, those dark eyes probing. “What do yours do?”

  Makami stiffened at the question. That answer was more than he was willing to give. Besides, he had another question.

  “You made yours stop. How?”

  “It is the skin that is magic,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Whatever patterns we place upon it are ours to control.” Seeing his blank expression, she frowned slightly and squinted with curiosity. “You truly don’t know?” He shook his head. Magic of the skin? He had never heard of anything like this.

  “Fine then, I’ll show you.” Placing her palm flat against his chest she closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. “Breathe,” she told him. “Breathe like I do. Clear your thoughts of nothing but the markings, see them stilled, and breathe.”

  Makami watched her for a while, attempting to emulate her actions. It took a few tries, but finally he matched her breathing, taking breath and releasing as she did so. Closing his eyes, he saw the markings in their normal dance, swirling about beneath his skin. He tried to see them stilled, imagining what they would feel like, finally at peace. It was a pleasant thought.

  “Good,” Kahya said. “You learn quickly.”

  Makami opened his eyes. He was readied to ask her what she meant, until his eyes fell to his chest. The markings had gone still. They sat there, unmoving, as if trapped in time. He gaped at them in wonder, a surge of happiness threatening to escape his mouth in a mad laughter. Looking to Kahya he saw a slight smile on her lips, as if amused by his own joy. He opened his mouth to thank her when a familiar feeling suddenly came. Gazing back down to his chest he found the markings moving again. They did so slowly at first, but soon built up speed, returning to their normal pace. His own smile vanished, at the loss of this minor triumph.

  “Worry not,” Kahya told him soothingly. “You only need practice. Your magic is strong. It will be harder to control. If you like, I can teach you.”

  He pulled his eyes from his chest, looking up to her. Teach him?

  “Yes,” he nodded, unable to hide his eagerness. “I would like that. Please.”

  Kahya lifted her shirt back to her shoulders, pulling it more firmly about her.

  “Wait a while,” she said picking up her lamp as if preparing to go. “Then come to my tent.” Covering her face, she walked out into the howling storm, leaving him alone.

  Makami did not waste time, hurriedly dressing. He had never wanted to learn a thing so much in his life. It was some time later that he found himself outside Kahya’s tent, a large one she reserved for herself. He stood hesitantly, uncertain if he should announce his entrance. In the midst of his thoughts her voice suddenly came, amazingly in his thoughts, telling him to enter. Doing as instructed, he pushed
back the flaps and walked inside.

  Master Dawan’s eldest daughter’s dwellings were at least twice the size of his own and more. It was filled with soft cloth and other strewn items. An iron brazier with red-hot coals kept the space warm, and provided the only illumination. A bowl of water was suspended above it, sending out steam to fill the tent in mist. Beyond the thick vapors there was a sweet scent in the air that tickled his nose. Of course, there was also Kahya.

  The woman sat in a corner of her room, reclined upon several thick reams of red cloth. She had retired her usual billowy shirt and trousers, and now lay wrapped in light blue cloth that left her shoulders and most of her legs bare. Beads of water rolled down her bare skin, as the mist of the room clung to her. Leaning back, she held a long and ornately carved thin pipe in her hand, pulling from it and exhaling the sweet scent that filled his nostrils into the air. She lifted a hand, motioning for him to come closer. As he did so she looked up to him, her dark eyes tinged with red—an effect of the intoxicating herbal concoction he well recognized.

  “You will need to be in your skin,” she told him.

  Makami’s eye brows rose as he caught her meaning.

  “Do not take all night,” she chided.

  Following her commands, he pulled off his shirt and then his trousers.

  “Come,” she said, patting the space before her. “You will have to learn it the way I did.”

  As he knelt down, she discarded the cloth that hugged her, urging him forward. In moments the two sat touching, their sweat-slick skin pressed against each other. It was a soothing warmth, one that Makami had come to forget. Meeting his gaze, she parted her lips, blowing thick smoke upon his face, directly into his nostrils. He coughed but inhaled, feeling the sweet vapors enter his mind.