Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

Surprise

  Djola climbed along the ragged cliffs, agile and practiced. He dangled a moment over a dark tidal pool, appreciating his strength, the salt air, and white-water birds diving for fish. He grabbed three shells, not yet sun-bleached, for the children, and a rare spiky urchin for Samina. He jumped over the pool and ran through a maze of caves and canyons toward their cozy cottage. He chuckled. Home looked like driftwood caught in a rockslide. Tree limbs obscured a broken chimney.

  A secret hideaway meant dusty rides to the capital city, ten days on the Empire road or more, if he had to wait out storms. He hated leaving for Council before repairing the chimney or helping Samina fix the windcatcher. Rotating bundles of reeds cooled hot days and warmed chill nights, but were making such a racket, nobody could sleep at night or think during the day.

  Samina stood on the roof by the windcatcher. A sweaty tunic hugged her muscled buttocks and thighs. Her face was the golden brown of nearby cliffs. Silver tattoos snaked under one blue-violet eye and over the other. Silver and blue lip-tint matched her eyes. Strange to him once, beautiful now. Djola married Samina for peace and found love.

  Mumbling about broken tools, Samina replaced a bent crossbeam. Reed-wheels rotated softly again, like wind whispering in the bushes.

  “You’ve fixed the windcatcher despite broken tools,” Djola called up to her, “and I must be going. I’m long overdue.”

  “Who travels far in storm season, even on a warhorse?” She leapt down in front of him. “Everyone will be late, even those who live close.” She searched Djola’s face. “You didn’t show Nuar your map, did you?” Samina knew Djola better than anyone.

  “We talked a little about it.”

  She balled her fists and pounded his chest. “You smell of bats and sea urchins.”

  He held up the spiky purple shell and grinned at the delight in her eyes. “Yours.”

  She cupped it gently. “How do you find these?” She pressed her body to his and kissed him, a slow dance of tongues and lips. “We should take a ride on the waves.”

  “On that flimsy raft? When I come back.” He displayed three flat star discs. “For Tessa, Bal, and Quint.”

  “Not a crack or blemish, three perfect shells.” Samina shook her head. “Master of Poisons? Why aren’t you Master of Weeds and Wild Things?”

  “Azizi invited me to the stone-wood table and named me Master of Poisons.”

  Samina set the shells in a window. “You can’t name yourself? Use your true name?”

  “Who masters the wild?”

  “Exactly!” An old argument flared out of nowhere, like a poison storm bursting from static and shimmer. Why blame him for the weather? Why fight over the price of tree oil and mangos? Over too many fruit trees going to flower but not to fruit? Over the taste of sand on every breath? Djola agreed, something must be done, that’s why he headed to Council.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Samina declared. “We could take the children to Eidhou Mountain, visit my sister. She sent a bushel of mangos.”

  “Your sister will be at Council.”

  “Sister Kyrie can take care of herself.”

  “So can I.”

  “On Mount Eidhou, the air is sweet, the rain reasonable.”

  “For now. We’ll go when I come back. You’ll be fine here while I’m gone.”

  Samina poked him. “The gods of the crossroads are tricksters.”

  “Only Nuar and my guard know this place and the guards get lost. Inland villagers think we’re pirates.”

  “I am a pirate. We used to raid this coast.” Samina sucked back tears. “Twenty new funeral mounds in the village—a ghost village soon. Let us come with you.”

  “When Council sits, rebels rile the people up and priests snatch children to bleed for conjure spells. The capital is no place for you all.”

  She took a battle stance. “No one tells me my place.”

  Djola raised his hands high. “True. But we agreed to make this our home. You feared Kyrie would turn our children into rebels.”

  “I don’t know anymore. Would that be so bad?”

  “Rebels chase a hopeless cause. They’re in disarray, a mob.”

  “You twist my words against me!” Samina paced around him, a captain on a floundering ship. “Just because you argue well doesn’t mean you’re right.”

  Djola retreated to the kitchen, to the smell of ripe mangos, cardamom, and kola nuts. He plucked a slice of warm nut bread from a basket. His Aido bag lay on the table stuffed with map scrolls, Kyrie’s mangos, and Samina’s pirate charms.

  “Where is everybody? I must say good-bye.” Djola climbed to the loft and poked blankets and pillows then glanced into the rafters. A fly twitched free of a half-formed spiderweb. Samina raced out the back door to an empty yard. Half the sky had turned orange again.

  “Their cloaks are gone.” Djola stepped beside her, touching his shoulder to hers.

  “They snuck away. While your men readied the horses.”

  Djola headed to the corral hidden in the trees. “Most of the horses are gone.”

  “Quint saw something at the ruins by the village boneyard yesterday. Something for you. I heard him tell his sisters. That’s where they went. Zst!” Samina cursed. She never let the children out when storms threatened, even if they wore cloaks and mesh veils. “They’ll get lost. Or worse.”

  “Nuar says this is just a bit of bluster.”

  “Nobody doubts Chief Nuar’s storm-sense, still…” Sand demons danced in from the table land and joined forces at the canyon walls.

  Djola hugged her. “We’ll find them.”

  * * *

  Djola and Samina scrambled through a tunnel too dark and treacherous for horses. Samina led the way with a smoky torch. They’d reach the village boneyard in under an hour. Djola refused to imagine the worst, Samina’s influence. Pirates saw opportunity in every direction. Horse tracks at the corral had been clear. Djola’s guard, twelve seasoned warriors, rode with the children toward the canyon maze—Quint’s idea. Their six-year-old son was always plotting mischief and keeping spirits high. The sky looked threatening, but sand demons collapsed in fickle winds. His guards were northlanders: Ishba, Sorit, Kahoe—tribes that aligned with Anawanama chiefs after the Empire invaded. They could handle storms or rogue pirates raiding for slaves.

  Rano, the captain, was as fierce as a snow bear. He’d come through war and twenty years of peace with Djola. Rano doted on Tessa, Djola’s eldest daughter. When she was born, Rano pledged to die for Djola and his family. Drunken bravado perhaps, but almost true. Tessa probably talked Rano into this adventure. She had a diplomat’s tongue and a pirate woman’s charm. Bal, the middle child, must be guiding the troops—she knew the maze better than anyone.

  Djola touched Samina’s back. “Don’t be upset. They’ve planned a surprise.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Samina picked up the pace.

  “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  She turned to him with skeptical eyebrows and downturned lips. “You know I hate surprises and secrets.”

  He dodged her doubt. “This is your fault. Or your grandfather’s.” Pirates who tried raiding from the cove perished in the canyon maze, until her grandfather mapped a tunnel route, left over from when this was Lahesh land. Samina inherited Grandfather’s maps and convinced Djola to build a hideaway near the entrance.

  “No. Tessa, Bal, and Quint hope to delay you another day.”

  “We’ll find them in less than an hour. I can leave after lunch. The light lasts long.”

  “Not as long as you think.”

  “Warhorses will make the Empire Road before dark.”

  * * *

  The ancient boneyard was a gently sloping field covered by whistling acacia trees. Poison storms had taken their toll on nearby farms. Grain and fruit rotted; soil blew away; yet whistling acacias held their ground. Temple ruins to forgotten gods poked through prickly branches. Ancestor mounds, stone tombs, and funeral pyres were
scattered among the trees. Everyone was buried here: citizens, northlanders, pirates, and people nobody remembered. When the wind blew, ancestors spoke through acacia gourds—fat bulbs along the branches that ended in knife-sharp thorns. The thorns discouraged hungry herds, and wildflowers growing in the thicket drew bees and hummingbirds. A perfect place to speak to the ancestors.

  Djola and Samina smudged soil on their foreheads and whispered praises to sacred ground. Warhorses flicked tails at pesky flies. Djola’s guardsmen shuffled their feet and offered sheepish grins as fifteen-year-old Tessa raced to her parents. “We’d have made it back in time, but Quint ran off with the old codex.” She had Samina’s watery eyes, sturdy physique, and flinty nature. “The words had faded. Why give that to you? So he’s hiding.”

  Samina peered down the village road. “Hiding? Quint gets lost so easily.”

  “Don’t worry.” Bal jabbed at Djola with a fighting staff. “Captain Rano is on his trail.” She had green-flecked dark eyes like Djola’s. “Rano says he’ll teach me to be the best tracker.” Djola groaned when she got him between the ribs. “You say I have a fighting spirit, yet you ride into battle and leave me behind.” Twelve-year-old Bal wanted to go to Council and protect him from scoundrels and haints.

  Tessa sucked her teeth. “Quint’s mad you’re leaving, before taking us up the coast to hunt old conjure books.”

  “You won’t find ancient Anawanama spells to save us.” Samina shook her head. “That’s all been lost, even old Lahesh wisdom.”

  “Not all of it,” Djola insisted. Samina couldn’t argue with that.

  “Why go to Council if storms rage and masters ignore you?” Tessa stood in Djola’s face, bold as a pirate captain, speaking for her brother, sister, and Samina. She threw her arms around Djola’s neck. “Please stay. You can do more good here than in the capital.”

  Djola stroked his daughter’s weave of braids. “I wish that were true.” His resolve cracked. Was he a fool, banging his head on Azizi’s table, betraying his own people?

  Captain Rano stuck his face through a ruin wall. “Quint’s in here. I just can’t reach him.”

  A sand demon swirled down the village road, dust from the north, from Nuar’s crops. Ancestors whistled a scratchy tirade as Djola and Samina struggled through thorny branches into the ruin. Trees had reclaimed most of the temple ground. Quint was tucked in a crossroads altar at the top of a tower, eyes filled with tears. He clutched a codex wrapped in metal-mesh. Rano stood under him.

  Samina climbed stairs that ended in broken limbs. “How’d you get up there?”

  Quint took a breath. The altar listed to one side, snapping a branch. He froze.

  “He went up and down before, to get the codex,” Bal said. “I was too heavy.”

  Samina shot Djola a desperate glance. He winced. Quint and his sisters had risked everything for an empty book. The altar-tower rattled as the sand demon closed in. “Jump!” Djola shouted.

  Quint flew from the altar as the tower collapsed behind him. Samina bounced on a branch, sprang high, and snatched him out of the air. Cradling her son, she slammed butt-first into Rano’s shoulder and chest. They fell against a grassy ancestor mound. Rano was knocked senseless. Samina and Quint rolled away unscathed.

  * * *

  Quint thought if they couldn’t find him, Djola wouldn’t be able to leave. Nobody scolded him. Rano praised Quint’s courage, although the words came out garbled. Quint gaped at the addled captain then sank in a corner, pouting.

  Bal poked him. “The gods of the crossroads smiled on us.”

  Tessa kissed the knot on Rano’s head. She and Bal danced up and down the stairs and rolled across the ground until Quint was giggling and prancing around the cottage with them. Samina prepared a feast, for the guardsmen too. Djola let Quint sit in his lap when they sat down to eat: fish in a mango sauce, nut bread, plantains, and cardamom rice.

  “This food tastes better than usual.” Quint savored the last morsel and leaned back into Djola’s full belly.

  “You need a bath!” Samina wiped mango from Quint’s cheek and brushed sand from his hair. He tugged her toward Djola and the three of them almost spilled onto the table. Djola’s breath caught in his throat. Giving up the old ways, fighting for the Empire, he never expected to raise three children with his pirate love.

  “No more climbing through ruins for old books!” Samina tried to scowl and failed, and so avoided Djola’s eyes. Outside a distant wind wailed. She blamed him for sandstorms and high-spirited children. Unreasonable. She indulged the children as much as he did—so they could belong to themselves. Bal sang an ancient Anawanama song to the crossroads gods.

  Crossroads tricksters crack you apart

  Truth upside down and inside out

  Right side wrong and backside front

  “You still remember that?” Djola had taught her when she was little. Quint clapped a rhythm and Tess added harmony. Djola glanced around the table, lifted his wineglass, and leaned into Samina. Silver tattoos around her eyes were snowflakes in a midnight sky. “You all are my heart beating.”

  Samina pulled away and started clearing up the last of the feast. “You’re losing the light. If you’re going, go now.”

  Djola packed Quint’s blank codex with his travel cloak. Tessa gave him spells to avoid danger on the road. He clasped her neatly-written scroll to his chest. Bal offered her fighting staff. “No.” He smiled. “You’ll need it to keep everyone safe, while I’m gone.”

  Rano had recovered his wits and protested when Djola sent three guards to the cliffs and three to the village to watch over his family. Only six guards would leave Djola vulnerable at Council. “It’s just for a short while.” Djola hugged the children, then eyed his wife.

  “Twenty years. Why does it still have to be you?” Samina slugged him and headed out the back door, fussing over crows in the berries, fussing at Djola really. No hug or good-bye kiss, no fortification for the battles ahead. Pirates made terrible wives.

  He slammed out the front, rattling bamboo wind chimes. He cursed willful witch women as he mounted his horse. “Who else?” He shouted at Rano. “If not me, who?”

  4

  The Griot of Griots

  Green Elders in cloud-silk travel robes stood around Father. They were smooth-cheeked, eyes outlined in black kohl, ropes of hair knotted with seeds. Green and red mica glittered on their palms. They gave Father another money bag and strode into Mother’s Smokeland herb garden. Awa shook her head. They’d come from the sweet desert to take her away. Her chest tightened as they played drums, flutes, and hunter’s harps. Were they all vesons, neither man nor woman, playing every instrument, eating little flesh?

  Awa’s three brothers gaped at strangers who jingle-jangled as they talked. Her brothers were headed off to apprentice in Holy City at the southernmost border of the Empire. They’d live and work a few weeks’ ride from a thief-lord fortress. With such experience, they’d be important men someday, maybe advisors to the emperor. They looked foolish, smirking and grabbing their crotches. She caught oldest brother Kenu’s eye. The smirk slid off his face.

  “Don’t play the fool.” Kenu jabbed his brothers.

  “Kenu could build a tower to the stars,” Father shouted. “But you’d rather your sons be beggars or pirates.”

  “When have I said that?” Mother shouted too.

  “I hear what you don’t say, woman.” Father quieted down.

  “Do you?” Mother shook her head. Father only heard himself.

  “When barren fields drink our sweat and a blight steals the harvest, I hear you.”

  “You sound like a high-nosed Elder.” Mother flicked a finger under the tip of her nose. “All the time talking down to me.”

  He ground his teeth. “Awa will learn good conjure.”

  “Any conjure can be perverted. Even Green Elder spells.” Mother sneered. “You know this better than I do.” She didn’t want Awa to go.

  Father clutched the money bags an
d tramped away. He’d lived with the Elders, learned poetry, masonry, and metalwork, before inheriting his brother’s farm and his brother’s witch-wife, a woman too wild to love. Kenu said Father hated those years in the enclave—fasting or eating bugs, spouting jumba jabba all day long, and walking on hot coals. Father had ugly purple scars on the bottoms of his feet and a cache of secret scrolls and spells. City chiefs, thief-lords, and priests clamored for his building conjure. He’d even built a gate for Hezram, high priest of Holy City, and earned a sack of sky rocks. Still, Father regularly cursed the Elders for ruining his life. Awa hugged her knees, panicked. A lapsed Elder selling his daughter to an enclave didn’t make sense.

  “What’s this face?” Mother pinched Awa’s nose and tried to smile.

  “I don’t want to go,” Awa said.

  “Green Elders risked their lives to find you.” Mother gathered Awa close. The lightning tang of Smokeland clung to them both. “Elders roam the forests, plains, and mountain cliffs, collecting stories and talking folks out of foolishness.”

  Awa scrunched up her face, unimpressed.

  “They’re free.” Mother’s usually bright eyes had gone misty. “They have adventures across the Empire. They know a detour around the poison desert and wander to northern lands beyond Mount Eidhou.” She tickled Awa’s sides. “Elders sing songs and tell stories all day long. You’ll love that.”

  Awa perked up. “Will I come back a griot storyteller to tell you tales?”

  “Perhaps.” Mother’s lips trembled. “Yari, the griot of griots, has chosen you.”

  Awa glowered at the Green Elders. She spat out the bee stinger from Smokeland. It burnt her tongue. Yari was a legendary griot, a walking library who knew something about everything. Still, “I don’t want to go.”

  “Would you rather be sold to a transgressor hut to get bled for high priest Hezram?”

  “Why sell me at all?”

  Mother bit her lip and traced the snake birthmark on Awa’s scalp that wiggled to her eyebrow. She smoothed a snarl of hair and whispered, “I’ll poison your father for stealing you from me. On your birthday.” She clenched her jaw, serious. “His favorite bread.”