Ancient, Ancient
Kiini Ibura Salaam
WINNER OF THE 2012 JAMES TIPTREE, JR. AWARD.
Ancient, Ancient collects the short fiction by Kiini Ibura Salaam, of which acclaimed author and critic Nalo Hopkinson writes, “Salaam treats words like the seductive weapons they are. She wields them to weave fierce, gorgeous stories that stroke your sensibilities, challenge your preconceptions, and leave you breathless with their beauty.”
Indeed, Ms. Salaam’s stories are so permeated with sensuality that in her introduction to Ancient, Ancient, Nisi Shawl, author of the award-winning Filter House, writes, “Sexuality-cum-sensuality is the experiential link between mind and matter, the vivid and eternal refutation of the alleged dichotomy between them. This understanding is the foundation of my 2004 pronouncement on the burgeoning sexuality implicit in sf’s Afro-diasporization. It is the core of many African-based philosophies. And it is the throbbing, glistening heart of Kiini’s body of work. This book is alive. Be not afraid.”
Kiini Ibura Salaam
ANCIENT, ANCIENT
Stories
This collection is dedicated to humanity’s ancient urges, and to the ancient truths that reside in each one of us.
Annunciation
by Nisi Shawl
Be not afraid.
Angels of longing arise from these pages, tugging at your heart, your tongue, testing your nerves, teasing your brain. Bravery is the best way to meet them. I know this from experience.
In 2001, Kiini Ibura Salaam attended the Clarion West Writers Workshop in Seattle. As a classroom volunteer, sorting and collating participants’ manuscripts, I interacted with her, for the most part, on the surface of things. I retain an impression of her physical presence as a serene steadiness. A beautifully embodied author-in-training, serious of mien, she wore the poise of a poet, the quiet calm of a traveler who knows she has reached a new land and waits expectantly for surprise.
But in a way I was acquainted with Kiini before this face-to-face encounter. We shared the Table of Contents of the first Dark Matter anthology, which was published a year earlier. So I had read her Dark Matter story “At Life’s Limits,” and I was quite aware that deep down, this calm held surprises of its own: strangely refracted glimpses of—of what? Smoke more dangerous than fire? Moth-winged vampires, gentle yet implacable, tragically susceptible to poisonous disbelief? And dance as speech, and orgasm as an alternative to murder—was that really—
When I opened up that anthology and came across what Kiini was doing, I had had to look unflinchingly. I’d had to grasp what she was saying. I’d had to feel it, to know it. Feeling is more powerful than fear. Knowledge is joy.
“Ferret” appeared on the Infinite Matrix website in 2003. Its depiction of a generation ship guided by gut-dwelling oracular animals proved to be just as simultaneously unsettling and enticing as that earlier story.
In 2004, my work kept company with Kiini’s twice more. Mojo: Conjure Stories’ editor Nalo Hopkinson published her “Rosamojo,” a ghost story that continues past the point where the heroine avenges herself on a father she knows will never stop hurting her.
In Dark Matter 2, Sené, the heroine of “Desire,” is a crack-skinned mother of twins set suddenly, magically afire, burning with rekindled sexuality; her adventures alongside a goat-legged sub-Saharan Pan and a seductively crocodilian Venus remind her—and her audience—of the power of fleshly gratification. Let us never forget it.
That same year an interviewer asked me what changes I predicted in sf as a result of the recent influx of Afro-diasporic writers. “Everything is going to get a lot sexier,” I said. Was I thinking of Kiini’s work? Not consciously. I could have been, but I had responded without thinking.
My answer disturbed me even as I gave it, even as I knew it was right. Sexualized stereotypes of African-descended peoples abound. Was I internalizing and validating our exoticization? Was I glorifying our oppression?
I have had seven years to consider what I said. I stand by it, and I recognize Kiini Ibura Salaam as an excellent example of my meaning.
Stereotypes are untrue. Sometimes, though, they bear truth’s imprint. Sometimes they spring up from what truth has crushed down. As they manifest they can co-opt and mispurpose inescapable realities. And that’s what happened with the relationship between sexuality and those of us descended from black Africans. Despite its degradation, despite censorship, despite denial, sexuality is holy and powerful. Sexuality is ours. As African-descended people we possess it—without stealing it or depriving anyone else of their own. It is our divine right.
Sexuality is a form of sensuality, an intensification of it. Distinguishing between sexual feelings and sensual ones has never seemed that important a task to me. All encounters are sensual and all are sexual. As Luisah Teish, priestess in the West African Ifa tradition, once said, “I’ll fuck a plant if you show me the right one.”
Sexuality-cum-sensuality is the experiential link between mind and matter, the vivid and eternal refutation of the alleged dichotomy between them. This understanding is the foundation of my 2004 pronouncement on the burgeoning sexuality implicit in sf’s Afro-diasporization. It is the core of many African-based philosophies. And it is the throbbing, glistening heart of Kiini’s body of work.
This book is alive. Be not afraid.
I’ve mentioned only a few of the stories awaiting you within these pages, only those I’ve read outside of them. Some of the rest were previously published prior to “At Life’s Limits.” Some, after. “Ancient, Ancient,” the collection’s title story, appeared in 2002, but till now its undulating metal had not distracted me and its honey went untasted. My favorite piece is one of three original to this collection, “Pod Rendezvous.” A long and entrancing look at the last libertine hours of a future female who must dedicate her remaining life to selfless nurturing, it swoops on gossamer contrails from crèche to club, from finger-shoveled cafeteria food to bars dispensing star juice. It is the book’s final story. At its end the heroine disappears, a bright spark flying out of sight, and the story is done but not over, or over but not yet done. The pull, the sometimes literally visceral attraction of what Kiini does with words, continues on beyond them.
There is no easy comfort here. No good stopping place, not even at the conclusion of that last sentence. Satisfaction serves only as a base for further explorations. Waves of sensation wash ceaselessly against just-bearably-sensitized skin. Resolution rolls over to reprise. Finishing one story and beginning the next, we are, like Laki, the heroine of “Pod Rendezvous,” merely departing one mysterious path for another. We tread where angels do, or vampires, or gods, or beasts, or nameless monsters. We go to where the power is, the flesh. The knowledge and the joy.
Be not afraid. Be glad.
Desire
Sené. Pregnant Sené. Sené of the tired skin. Sené whose face held a million wrinkles, each one etched deeply as if carved over the course of forty years. Sené whose blood was only twenty-four years young.
< Faru, Faru running through the bush. >
The shining eyes of her boys made her smile, but not much else touched her. Not a full-throated bird’s song, not the sun peeking pink at dawn, not her husband’s fleeting caresses.
< Faru leapt right, darted left. His hoof slipped, and his hind legs buckled. Faru stamped his front hoof, shook himself off, and leapt up again. >
Sené had hard-working hands: dry, cracked, bloated. With them she beat the dirt out of her family’s cloths, scaled fish, pounded root vegetables, carried crops to her husband’s mother, and avoided touching herself.
< Thin branches whipped against Faru’s face as he ran. Faru, the flawless. Faru, the godly. Faru reeking of thick sensuality. His huge
goat eyes darted back and forth. His god’s heart beat a fearful rhythm in his chest. His lips lay open in a pant. Desire—his and his sister Quashe’s own special force—throbbed through his skinny goat legs. Desire. That which made Faru who he was.
Faru, Faru running through the bush. >
Sené’s hands were always busy. Just now, they were sweeping out the corners of the cliff dwelling she, her husband Na, and the two boys called home. Now her hands were rolling up the sleeping mats and tucking them away. Now they were building a fire.
< Faru heard the thump, thump of Laloro thundering behind him. Laloro, great god of disease. Faru did not look back. He reached the end of the bush and teetered on the edge of the cliff. >
Sené pulled a bunch of lemongrass from the hanging basket. She squatted, one hard hand holding her bulging belly. She threw the fragrant herb into the pot and watched as the bits danced and dove with the boiling water.
< Faru glanced over his shoulder. Laloro—a godly elephant covered in hideous warts—charged at him. Faru jumped. His hooves found footholds on the slenderest of rock surfaces. He bounded from rock to rock until he landed on a large outcropping. Faru skidded to a stop. >
Rocks tumbled across the entrance to Sené’s home. She put her hands to her knees and strained to rise. Her joints throbbed as she shuffled to the entrance of her dwelling. Faru jumped down from Sené’s roof and landed on all fours. Sené opened her cracked lips to scream, but the sound died in her throat. Faru rose on his hind legs and stretched, exposing the expanse of his human torso to Sené’s gaze. The thrumming of thousands of dragonfly wings beat in her chest. She bent down to one knee.
Faru preened as he always did when admiring eyes drank in the vision of him. He was a god, yes, but he was vain. He twisted his body this way and that. Light undulated across his fur in shimmering waves. He brushed his hooves across his chest, smoothing the flat gray circle of fur that collared his throat. Sené was powerless to look away.
Faru fixed his luminous eyes in Sené’s direction. He licked his lips. A muscle in his jaw flexed and his nose twitched. Sené held herself stiff until the tea hissed and spilled over. Wet tumbled into the fire.
Sené leapt to her bare feet. “Faru, honorable one, would you like some lemongrass?”
“No, no time,” Faru said. “Come.”
Sené’s blood pulsed as she neared the god. She stood before him, shaking, waiting. With a grunt Faru grabbed Sené by the neck. His hooves scratched her skin. Godly lips pressed against common ones. A godly tongue coaxed Sené’s mouth open. She gagged, almost choking as an intangible force flowed down her throat.
< A large shadow slid past the opening of Sené’s home. >
Faru broke away from Sené. “Don’t leave here. I’ll return.”
With that, he turned and bounded away.
< Laloro swooped by the cliffs. Laloro flying by on chicken’s wings. The tiny appendages didn’t seem enough to hold his elephant heft. He delighted in this, the most surprising of his godly powers, but he wanted more. >
Sené, Sené, full of dancing light. Laughter long buried came twisting up into Sené’s throat. She stared at the empty space where Faru had held her and clapped her hand over her mouth. Giggles seeped from between her fingers.
The lemongrass hissed again. Sené looked over at the fire. Even the water, boiling over, seemed something to delight in. She bent over the water, dreamily drumming her fingers on her cheek. Her lips would not lie flat. They twisted up and open, surprising Sené with irrepressible glee.
< The moment Faru reached the top of the cliff, Laloro wrapped his trunk around Faru’s body and flew into the thick of the bush. >
Sené tipped the tea over, dousing the fire. Her nostrils flared as the scent of lemongrass filled the dwelling. Inexplicably, she began to rub the back of her hand over her face. Her fingers wound into her hair, twisting the rough strands into coils, then setting them loose. She smoothed her eyebrows, massaged her neck. Those hard ugly hands found delight in the curves of her body. Her breasts, sagging and full, were a wonder to touch. So was the tight swell of her belly.
< Laloro did not care that his trunk made breathing hard for Faru. In fact, he coiled his trunk tighter. Faru laughed.
“What’s so funny, doomed one?” Laloro asked.
“I have nothing for you. It’s gone,” Faru said.
Laloro’s tiny eyes rolled in their sockets. “I want the bewitching power and I want it now.”
Faru laughed again. “My sister will not fall for such tricks. Quashe will not be seduced by an ugly hulk of flesh covered in warts.”
“Shut up, Faru,” Laloro roared, “give me the power or I will crush you.” >
Sené’s hardworking hands parted the front of her cloth. Her fingertips alighted on the curly tangle between her thighs. Lust unfurled and snaked in dizzying circles within her. Her feet backed her body to the wall. She pushed her spine against the rock. Her hand swiveled and writhed, her hips rotated in delight.
< “Where is it?” Laloro asked.
“I’ve lost it.” Faru said. “Nobody’s perfect, even gods have their days off.”
Laloro stared deeply into Faru’s eyes. Faru looked back, unblinking. Laloro knew from the calm in Faru’s face he was telling the truth. Laloro loosened his trunk and dropped Faru to the ground. >
Sené’s fingers were knuckle-deep inside herself. She was reaching for the mirth that Faru had trickled down her throat. Reaching to stroke the sudden burst of joy filling all her tired parts. When she was trembling, pleasure shooting from the pressure of her fingers, all of her skin sighed. She withdrew her wet fingers and used her own juices to draw patterns on the wall. Each mark was a reminder of this sensation; a sign to herself, a message to her husband Na, that everything had changed.
Sené. Slow Sené. Sené of the new urges climbed down the cliff. She crossed the dangerous ledges and narrow passes carefully. As she stepped down onto flat ground, she glanced up at the peak of the cliff. She saw two forms running there. The wind carried their laughter to her. They were, unmistakably, her boys. “Na,” she yelled, expecting to see her husband’s form just behind them. Instead, she saw the large frame of Na’s mother lumbering in the distance. Just as she was wondering where Na could be, a hummingbird hovered near her ear. Her heart leapt, and she felt the desire sweep through her again.
Sené swayed through the meadow, her thoughts suddenly preoccupied by a flock of yellow butterflies. She was sensitive to all sensations: the wind on her cheeks, the sun on her shoulders, the tall grass brushing against her hips. From the other side of the meadow, she could smell the sweet, sharp scent of ripe berries. In seconds, she was tucking little buds of fruit under her tongue.
< Faru, Faru running to the cliffs. >
When her belly was full, Sené’s skin ached for coolness. She headed straight for the river. Quashe’s river. Before Sené’s toes met the moist river earth, before she could submerge her fingers into the cool dark waters, Sené heard the deep bouncing of her husband Na’s laughter.
< Faru leapt down from Sené’s roof and landed on all fours. He snorted. The sight of her empty dwelling tore through him. Faru, Faru. Without the power of desire, his breath did not call forth horny submission. His presence did not attract an aroused audience of winged, slithering, and walking things. He was invisible. And the horror of it pained him. >
Na? Laughing? Sené crept along the bank toward the unfamiliar sound. She hid behind a tree and peered around the trunk. Na was sitting, legs spread, feet dipped in the water, the seductive crocodile head of Quashe—goddess of desire—leaning against his bare chest. Quashe’s back formed one gleaming stretch of reptile skin. Her torso, neck, and arms were human-soft, honey-amber skin, wet with river dew. Na’s fingers were sticky with her. One palm full of a tight godly breast, the other cupping the curve of fertile god belly. Quashe’s thick tail swished back and forth as she dripped water into Na’s mouth from her crocodile snout.
< Faru, Far
u needing the power of desire just as Sené needed breath. >
A flash of anger interrupted Sené’s joy. How could Na be sharing sweetness with this…this…crocodile god? Without a thought, she opened her mouth and sang an imperfect love song:
“Lover the length of you
Your weight between my thighs
Lover the scent of you
An oasis of sighs”.
Both Quashe and Na turned to face the sound of Sené’s singing. Sené. Sené who had so long been a dry discarded thing, stepped toward her husband. Unwavering, she pointed her big belly right at him and sang him to his feet.
Na was, for a few seconds, stilled, his body trapped between godly pleasures and the pull of his wife. Not his wife, a juicy apparition of his wife as a goddess; Sené as a queen, a swarm of butterflies hovering over her holy head.
< Laloro found Faru, bereft, lying flat on his back outside of Sené’s dwelling. Laloro laughed aloud. “You really have lost it?”
He hovered close to Faru’s face.
“Shower me with some horrible disease,” Faru said, reaching for Laloro’s trunk. “Give me some fatal sickness or leave me alone.” >
To Na’s ears, Sené’s song was nothing less than enchanting. In the thrall of her voice, he forgot about Quashe. He forgot the honeyed skin that coaxed him through a labyrinth of pleasure, turned away from the crocodile claws that gifted him with fish and seduction.
Sené opened her arms to her husband, and he stepped into them. Neither of them heard Quashe snarl. Their hands were too busy groping each other, fingers remembering a dance from old forgotten times.
< Laloro took pity on Faru. “Climb onto my back, and I’ll fly you to the Old One.”
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