Griots

by Charles R. Saunders

  “Be you the devil, or be you the devil not, but since you say you are my daughter’s taker, by my sword I’ll run you through.”

  “You wear the tailbone of the Bruth so I must fight you with a mortal weapon.”

  The general’s sword flashed out of his sheath and he sprang towards the demon ready to run him through. He failed. Faster than anyone could have ever imagined, the demon had swiped his sword out of his sheath and easily warded off the general’s blow, forcing him to crash to the ground. With not a moment to spare, the general was back on his feet, forced now to rethink his combat strategy against the demon. Though he was not of the land of the living, the demon seemed quite efficient with the weapons of the living.

  The general engaged the demon again, but this time, more mindful of his enemy’s skill. They clashed, thrust, cut, and slashed at each other, and even tried to push each other into river of Fire and Poisons, each one trying to make a quick end of the other. But soon the general began to tire. He had spent many sleepless hours with neither food nor sleep, and had fought for his life and his daughter’s for almost all of those hours. His wound from the ant-like creature continued to bleed, weakening him as the moments wore on. Garone only seemed to grow stronger. The end of the general was close at hand.

  And then a sound came from across the River of Fire and Poisons. It was music from a harp. Music such as had been played by the general’s daughter. For a brief moment the fighting stopped. Both sides looked across the river. The general saw nothing. But that meant his daughter was close. At that moment his spirits were lifted. His pain was gone. He would now fight with every ounce of strength to save his daughter. He sprang at the demon with a force so strong that the demon was taken aback. His sudden burst of energy could be stopped by nothing, for it was driven by the love of his child. The demon attempted to slow the general down but it was no use. Before long, the general drove his sword through the demon’s body. It shrieked and dropped to its knees, disbelief in its eyes.

  “I curse the fate of every human soul!” gasped the demon as the life drained away from its body. It fell on its stomach. It was then that the general noticed the small horn at the back of the demon’s neck. That was the prize the Wizard of Sheba had asked for. The general pull out his dagger and hacked off the horn of Garone which he placed in a pouch in his garments. His eyes then wondered to the territory on the other side of the river, where the music of the harp continued to be played.

  “Where is my daughter?” the general asked of nevii, who had stood by, watching his battle with Garone. “Where is she? I can hear her.”

  The nevii said nothing. But a moment later, the music began to draw closer. And then emerging from the shadows on the other side of the River of Fire and Poisons was a little girl dressed in bright blue robes she had been laid to rest in. It was Zeina, the general’s daughter, in the flesh and lovelier than she had ever been. The gold beads plaited into her braided hair shone more brightly than ever before. The flames of the River of Fire and Poison seemed to subside considerably with her presence as she stood only few paces away from them.

  “It is my daughter,” the general whispered to himself, a very pleasant smile on his face.

  “This is the moment you have been waiting for, general,” said the nevii.

  The general knew what he had to do. He held up his sword and looked at the body of the horned demon below him. A single swing of his weapon separated the demon’s head from its body. All he had to do now was toss the demons head across the River of Fire and Poisons so that his daughter could be restored to him. If the head landed in the river, the demon would be destroyed forever, never to torment another human soul, but the general’s daughter would not be restored to him. It was an easy decision for the general to make. He swung the demon’s head and was about to toss it across the river when the nevii stopped him.

  “Would you not speak first with your daughter, General?” the nevii asked.

  “How do I cross the river?” the general asked of the nevii.

  “Feed it a drop of the demon’s blood.”

  The general placed the demon’s head on the ground. He pulled out his dagger and tossed it into the River of Fire and Poisons for it was already stained with the demon’s blood. The flames subsided even more now, and a bridge of stone appeared across the river, linking both ends. He was about to dash across the river to his daughter, but again the nevii stopped him.

  “Wait, general,” the nevii demanded, “Only your daughter, an Undying, may cross the bridge of Fire and Poisons to come to you. You are a mortal and cannot cross the bridge.”

  “Can she hear me?” the general asked the nevii.

  “Speak to her, General. She will hear you.”

  The general faced his daughter, who had placed her harp on the ground and was standing still, silently, and facing her father.

  “Zeina?” the general called out, somewhat nervously, “It is me, your father.”

  “It is good to see you again, Father,” Zeina responded in a sweet, gentle voice.

  “Come, Zeina,” the general said stretching his arm. “Walk to me. I’ve come to take you home.”

  “I can’t, Father.”

  “Yes, you can. The demon is slain. I have his head. Your path home is here. So, let’s be on our way.”

  “No, Father. You must make the journey home alone.”

  “You mock me, little girl. Come across and let’s both be done with this place.”

  “Father,” Zeina continued, a deep seriousness suddenly apparent in her voice, “What happened to me is in the past. Now we all must learn to live with it. You must let me go.”

  “Stop this foolishness, child,” the general insisted somewhat impatiently and extended his arm even further as if it would reach his daughter. “Come home to me. Your aunts, uncles, your friends—they all miss you and love you, and they await you. I, your father, I await you. So, walk across the bridge and let’s be on our way.”

  “Father,” said Zeina, a single tear drop rolling down her cheek, “You must listen to me,” She paused. “You are the best father anyone could have and I love you for it. But we cannot and should not change what is past. Death is bound to meet all. There were many more before me and many more will be after me. Our loss is great and our sorrow is deep but we must learn to let go of each other.”

  “Zeina,” the general called weakly, his grief over the loss of his daughter starting anew, realizing it was no game she was playing.

  “Father,” Zeina continued, “I remember all the times you kissed me in forehead while I slept and how you kept watch over me as I played with friends even though you thought I did not know. I remember how proud you were of the first doll I ever made and how you bragged about it to your friends even though you think I did not know. Our love for each other will remain strong even after I am gone.”

  “But Zeina,” the general lamented, “This realm is no place for you. Death and misery are all that are here.” The general picked up the demon’s head and readied to toss it across the River of Fire and Poisons, ignoring the pleas from his daughter.

  “Father,” Zeina continued to plead, “Toss the head into the River of Fire and Poisons and you will free a great many souls and mine, free to return to their maker. But I won’t be able to return to you, and the demon’s spirit will never again torment another. Toss the demon’s head across the river and you will free my soul and I will return to you. But know that the demon’s spirit will return to torment many a great many others.”

  The general was silent, unsure of his next actions.

  “What must I do?” the general asked the nevii. “I want my daughter back.”

  “Only you can decide,” the nevii responded. “You must search your soul and do what you believe is right.”

  The general was conflicted, a heavy burden weighing on him. To save daughter alone and get her back, or save countless others and his daughter, but not get her back.

  “Father,” Zeina called, “Yo
ur grief will end with the passage of the moments. Cry if you must. Laugh if you please. But know that we will always exist in our memories and that we will still always have each other.

  “Think of all the glorious moments we shared—when you taught me how to ride and swim, and when I thought you how to play jump rope and swing from a tree.”

  The general dropped to his knees, the demons head still in his hands. What must he do? What should he do?

  “Zeina, my daughter,” the general lamented to himself, his eyes heavy.

  “Father you must be brave and let me go,” Zeina begged softly.

  The general remained on his knees. What must he do? He closed his eyes and rolled the demon’s head forward. It rolled over some rocks and into the River of Fire and Poisons. He did not look at the head or the river to see what happened.

  A brief moment later he opened his eyes and looked towards his daughter on the other side of the river. All was different around where she stood. The flames on the River of Fire and Poisons were gone, and the poisons were gone too, replaced by blue sparkling water. The darkness around Zeina was no more, replaced by bright lights that seemed to spring up from beneath her and ascend to the heavens. Each light carried with it a human—children, men, women, all smiling and looking down at the general as they floated upwards.

  “Who are they?” the general asked of the nevii in a gentle mournful voice.

  “Souls of the Undying, General. You have freed them to meet their maker at last.”

  The general looked up again, and this time he saw his former enemy, Dahnay, who waved down at him as he too floated towards the heavens.

  Zeina slowly walked across the bridge and came to her father. He lifted her up and kissed her on the head. He held her close to him for a long moment.

  “Go now, child,” said the general to his daughter, “And know that you are the bravest little girl in the world. What you have done here today is not for the weak hearted, child. You will always remain in my heart.”

  The general gently wiped off the tears from his daughter’s cheeks as the nevii gently and slowly floated towards the heavens with her, the light emanating from them brighter than all the others before it. She was the last of the chosen Undying to leave, taken by the nevii himself.

  “Look not to the past, Father, but to the future,” Zeina shouted down at her father just before she disappeared into the heavens, “For it is there that all wounds heal and where true happiness can be found.”

  The heavens soon cleared up and darkness returned. The general lost consciousness and dropped to the ground. When he opened his eyes again he was staring at the face of the Wizard of Sheba. He had been brought back to the land of the living, in the very same manner he had been placed in the Realm of the Undying, a manner known only to him and the wizard.

  The wizard was standing next to the general’s horse, left where the general had left it before he departed for the Realm of the Undying.

  “Welcome home, My Lord,” said the wizard to the general.

  The general stood up. His wounds were healed and his pains were no more. He reached into his pouch, pulled out the horn of Garone and handed it to the wizard along with the tailbone of the Bruth he had worn around his neck.

  “To you, the spoils of war be given, Wizard of Sheba,” said the general to the wizard.

  “And your daughter, My Lord?” asked the wizard.

  “She is happy.”

  “I am pleased, My Lord.”

  “So, wizard who has no name,” the general continued, “To you I have delivered what you asked for. For what purpose was your prize?”

  “My Lord the horned demon is only one demon in a long line of demons to be vanquished in an endless fight between good and evil. My battle is only one of a long line of battles that I continue after my father and his fathers before him, and one which my sons and their sons and daughters will continue after me until evil is rid of for all time.”

  “I wish you much luck, Wizard of Sheba.”

  The general turned to mount his horse and depart, but then turned suddenly and faced the wizard. He took the wizard’s arm and shook it heartily and sincerely.

  “I thank you, Sir, Wizard of Sheba” said he truly to the wizard, “I thank you.”

  The general mounted his horse and rode back towards his home in Roha, a look of absolute satisfaction and fulfillment on his face.

  Sekadi's Koan

  by

  Geoffrey Thorne

  His blade entered Sekadi’s body between two ribs on her lower right side and proceeded to carve an elliptical path through her abdomen. It came out again so quickly that it was only by the sudden spray of blood that she knew she’d been touched at all.

  Her opponent’s speed surprised her. She had never thought one so massive could move so quickly. His technique was also hard to identify. There was an improvisational quality to the big male’s form that had kept her off balance for most of their spar. She would have admired him if she hadn’t so badly wanted him dead.

  Her breath came hard suddenly and she realized that her lung, among other things, must have been pierced. In moments she would be unable to stand.

  “Break,” said Mosuoe Nemisa on her right. Sekadi caught a glimpse of the master’s scarlet robes flapping ever so slightly on the cinnamon breeze. Beyond Nemisa, through the thin afternoon haze, the sun was just considering its eventual dip toward the horizon.

  The big male froze instantly at the Mosuoe’s words– the curve of his great sword gleaming with the fires of the reflected sun.

  Sekadi’s own weapons, the willow daggers, were clever little things, their blades as thin as marsh grass, whose edges could sever bone. In the right hands they could turn a crescent blade attack or separate an opponent’s head from his shoulders.

  They were an archaic weapon, well out of modern favor, but Sekadi was smaller than most. Mosuoe Oshun felt they suited her better than would a crescent blade or sword.

  The young novice had chafed at the switch, declaring she would master the crescent blade whether Oshun approved or not, but the master was adamant.

  It had taken time and Sekadi would never actually admit it but she soon came to see the wisdom of Oshun’s decree. Within mere weeks her clumsiness with the little blades evaporated completely in favor of the sort of deadly precision most warriors only dreamed of. Though she still trained with all the other types, the willow daggers were her favorite blades now.

  Her enemy owed them a drink. Honor dictated she draw his blood as hers had been drawn– no matter what Mosuoe Nemisa might command.

  “Hsaa!” she said softly and lunged for the big male.

  She used Shango’s Reverse to strike at him, hoping to catch him unawares as he had caught her.

  She sprang into the air, the arc of her body implying a strike at his right flank. As she reached apogee and began to descend, she twisted her torso causing her to spin at the last instant and, in theory, fooling her opponent into exposing his neck.

  The big male, at first as still as stone, now rotated his sword just so–just enough to turn the willow daggers’ dark blades away from his throat. His block also somehow added torque to her spin, redirecting her momentum and sending her sprawling to the far side of the spar circle.

  She landed with a thick, flat thud and, try as she might, could not rise again. The impact forced out the remainder of her wind. She would not draw another easy breath until her wounds were tended.

  Through slitted eyes she watched as Mosuoe Nemisa strode gracefully towards her.

  “I told you to break, novice,” came Nemisa’s reed-thin voice. “Disobedience can be costly.”

  Her student coughed, spewing small golden flecks of her blood on the dark clay floor.

  “He cut me,” she wanted to say. “He forced steel into my flesh. He drew blood even though this was a simple training spar. Honor requires payment for that.”

  She wanted to say all that but she was having a hell of a time just drawing a
breath. The best she could manage were, “Blood,” and “Honor.”

  Mosuoe Nemisa smiled down at her pupil, showing the hint of her needle-sharp incisors. Her milk white hair, pulled back into a single thick braid down her back made the ridges on her forehead more prominent, her entire aspect like that of a sand hawk.

  “Find Mosuoe Nkati within the hour,” she said. “Or you will soon have neither.”

  The Mosuoe turned her back then and moved off towards the big male, who was again standing motionless at the center of the ring.

  #

  “Who is he?” said Sekadi as Mosuoe Nkati ran a healing gem over her abdomen; its magics sent a chill through her and she shivered.

  “Be still, novice,” said Nkati.

  “He never speaks,” she said, ignoring his ministrations.

  “Speaking is over-praised,” said Nkati. “And mostly over done.”

  She was too deep into her mull to note the point in his tone. He withdrew the gem and murmured a Closing Rhyme.

  “He’s too old to be a student,” she said, stifling a wince as last of her wound closed. Nkati, like Mosuoe Nemisa, was terribly old, older even than Sekadi’s grandsire. He too favored the single braid of white and the robes, though his were Healer blue.

  Her cousin, Lebo, often made sport of healers.

  “Their only job is to cheat a warrior of his rightful place in the Hands of Olodumare,” Lebo would say. He was a thick-witted lout but he was popular for his talent with the heart cleaver.

  Sekadi would have given her whole inheritance to see him make sport of Nkati or any of her teachers, cleaver or no. Then she would have happily danced at his funeral. The idea that he might find eternal bliss in the Hands of Olodumare while Nkati, as a healer, would not, was laughable.

  For all their advanced age, each of the temple's Mosuoes was as lethal as basilisk venom and five times as quick. She hoped one day to be half as deadly as even this wizened little teacher.