The Voices of Martyrs

by Maurice Broaddus

  “No more jokes?” The crone brushed her hair to the side. “Despite the huffing of the chief, your son will be raised as one of our own. He will follow The Path, and perhaps he won’t stumble as his mother and father did. He will be the pride of the tribe and will one day lead it to great heights. I will see to his education personally. Once you accomplish your task.”

  Lalyani parsed the choice before her. She asked for nothing, depended on nothing, and she expected nothing. All she had was honor and duty. She hated to depend on others—a man, an employer, the world—where she’d be tied to life. When things become precious to her, she was always on guard against someone snatching it from her; or worse, she herself destroying it. Life became about fear of losing. And the compromises she made in order to keep what she had. Better to stay unattached. Free. A tribe of one.

  Lalyani nodded.

  “You remember how to use the charms.” The woman handed Lalyani what appeared to be a bone wrapped with twine.

  “Yes, mistress.” Lalyani held the talisman to her ear. It hummed with the pulse of magic.

  “Good, for unprotected, I’d be sending you to certain death.”

  “The night is my ally and stealth my trade, mistress.”

  “I trust in your ability to remain silent.”

  “How will you know if I succeed?”

  “These bones will know. And you’ll be free. You will be of the Baluba tribe, one of the forgotten, and one day, you may even lead those nomads.”

  Dismissed, Lalyani …

  §

  … crept up the earthen stairs. Weeds sprang up through cracks in the crushed rock that formed the pathway. The cloying moisture of the stones formed a stark dankness with malefic odor. Torches lit the way through the cavern. The walls closed in on her, the passageway narrowing such that only one body could pass at a time. If she knew fear, she pushed it down into the deepest part of her. It was easier for her to act rather than worry, especially in defense of her own. Even if her own would never know of her actions.

  Stones steeped in shadows formed the portico of the temple. A series of caged, chattering monkeys screeched in alarm at her approach. Lalyani cursed and then plunged into the deeper shadows of the temple proper. The main chamber was a huge cavity the color of teeth, the walls smooth as if hewn from a single block of marble. From her hiding perch, Lalyani had full view of the passing processional.

  Three female agoze, initiates to the dark ways, accompanied the dark priest, Harlaramu. Clad only in a loincloth, a brief garment of antelope hide covered their brown skin. Glazed amber in the eerie firelight, the first carried a macabre drum: a human skull with its top sawed off and skin stretched across. The second illumined the path of the processional with a torch. The last brought a dog to the kneeling Harlaramu. Lalyani stared in horror and fascination as the woman slit the dog’s throat. Its spurting blood baptized the shaman. Then the dance began. Harlaramu stomped his foot and held the position until the first agoze began her gyrations. The hollow echo of the drumbeat continued as Harlaramu thrashed about to its rhythm. Faster she twirled about, the frenetic beat riling him to ecstatic exultations until the frenzy dropped him in an exhausted heap. Harlaramu came to a halt between two warriors each bearing heavy swords.

  Curiosity suckled at her …

  §

  … as she watched from the forest line. The thin barrier of foliage hid her, not that any in the tribe paid her any attention. They had already turned their back to her. The murmur of the gathered throng formed a melancholy cadence, their chants a dull intoning to call to the spirits of the kraal. The musicians occupied the clearing around the central fire. Dancers pranced along, their frenzied steps punctuated by yelps. The drummers caught the spirit of their dance, their wide smiles signaled an increase in the music’s tempo. Despite the preternaturally cool night, the tension thickened to that of a storm cloud. Abruptly, the chanting and music ceased, the settling silence a curtain raised for the final act of the performance. The entire village surrounded them, the crowd turning to face the great throne. Manuto brought Kaala before the tribal council, a group made up of Manuto, the high priest, the great crone, the elder, and the chief, the father of the tribe. Manuto engulfed the boy’s small hand in his own, his face a sullen mask, except for his eyes, and led him to the great crone. Kaala had too solemn a face. A young boy lost, wanting to cry out, but choosing not to. He would be a fine warrior one day. His chest puffed out, Manuto searched for Lalyani. The great crone nodded. He released the boy into her hands and she, in turn, presented him to the chief. The father of the tribe stood taller than the others, half his face daubed in crimson clay, his arms crossed along his chest. His impassive stare, without scorn, without judgment, turned to the boy. The chief carved a crescent moon onto his left buttock, the tribal scar. He would be accepted for now but would have to prove himself during his rites of manhood.

  Lalyani turned, head held high and uncompromising, and strode into the forest maw …

  §

  … as if drugged, she swam in darkness, breaking the surface as her eyes fluttered open. Her scattered thoughts took a moment to collect, memories returning in degrees. Her hands tied, a long rope fastened about her, looping under her armpits, terminating around the trunk of the marula tree. She tested the cords that bound her, the realization that she’d fallen not registering with her. Before the idea reduced her to an unfamiliar brand of misery, the sound of feet shuffling on nearby stone drew her attention.

  Up close, Harlaramu was taller but slender in a feminine way. With his delicate bearing—hips too rounded, eyelashes too long, and his voice too silvery from his toothy hideous grin—he should have been strangled at birth. Cowerie shells and copper scales decorated his sipuku. He leered at her breasts and legs. Dark eyes burned with intent to throttle her senseless if he couldn’t bed her. Men like him bound women, capturing what they couldn’t tame. They didn’t know what to truly do with a woman other than own her.

  “Lalyani. Once of the Mo-Ito. Outcast of the San tribe. Called to the Baluba, the Forgotten Ones.” His voice a low mumble, he started and stopped a few times, each time in a different tongue until he found her talk place.

  “Harlaramu. Rabid dog in need of being put down.”

  “You seem none the worse for wear after encountering the tokoloshe.”

  “I dispatched that abomination for befouling my sight with its presence.”

  “The great crone chose well in her guardian.” He leered at her bosom. “You … fascinate me.”

  “Maybe your fascination could have your eyes meeting mine for a change.”

  “A truce to your jokes, Clever One. Is that what the great crone taught you? Is cleverness the ultimate lesson of The Path? She asks a lot of you and what you have gained in return?

  “You don’t know what you believe and don’t trust what you understand. I could help you, you know. I followed The Path for a while, but I saw it for what it was. I could have been many things to you. The father you never knew. The man that accepts you as you are without question. You could lead the Krys and together we could make this kingdom ours. Show The Path and its followers what it means to live outside of their cages.”

  Her face tilted, an almond oval in the gloom. Her unwavering gaze studied him. “You are a creature of pain. You have known it in your time and have enjoyed dealing it to others. Your problem isn’t that you no longer believe in The Path, but that you fear it might be right. That the reason your hopes and dreams have been dashed to dust isn’t due to a failing of the faith, but a failing within you. So you seek to tear down any who might walk the ways of The Path—any who might make a difference in this life—in a pathetic attempt to reveal them as being just as flawed as you. You are weak and a coward.”

  “I …” Harlaramu stepped back as if needing to catch his breath. Or not lose his composure. “I don’t think you understand the precariousness of your situation.” He nodded and three of the Krys stepped forward and hoisted her. She dangled
over a donga in the forest, a clearing leading to a pit. Human bones bleached in the sun surrounding a cluster of six great anthills. Harlaramu tossed a piece of spoiled meat into the cluster. At first, only a few ants reared their heads. Then a wave of ants charged, pincers snapping, their barbed legs—each with a sharp claw—scurried across the sand. Their poison sacs seemed swollen with anticipation. “They are called ‘Warriors of Sunrise.’ They are the largest ants in existence. They can devour a man in long agonizing moments. You are so like them,” he said. “Huge. Fierce. Strong.” Baleful eyes glared at her. “I offer you what few women get: a choice.”

  “I’d sooner plunge into the Zambezi. That is my choice.” She raised her leg to allow him a measure of a view and grinned with gleeful malice. He could grip himself in the night; she had better things to do than be a man-boy’s plaything. Her clamorous voice and mocking tone drew a scowl from him. Little more than a beast, so easily roused to agitated frustration. He slapped her, first on one cheek, then the other, but she didn’t cry out. He clutched her jaw, more in a vise than a caress and wrenched her toward him.

  “Remove your hand or I’ll have your heart,” Lalyani said.

  “I believe you would.” He ran his hand along the top of her breast, but that, too, she didn’t feel. No amount of abuse from men could deprive her of her pride and honor. Dignity was her own to claim. She withdrew into herself. She learned to face life’s hardships without letting them turn her hard. Except when she needed to be.

  With that, he kissed her. The kiss was passionless. He might as well have been kissing a corpse. It wasn’t given nor was it his to take. She had never known true love, not that she was unfeeling, but a kiss was …

  §

  … too personal, the only bit of love left in her. She stole back into the kraal one last time. She stood over Kaala until the weight of her presence stirred him awake. Though he was the reason she chose as she did, she didn’t want hardness to be her legacy.

  “Goodbye, Lala.” His defiant eyes matched her own. Both were resolved to their fates.

  “Shhh, song of my heart.” She closed her pain-misted eyes and kissed him good night. A flicker of emotion, quick as a bird taking flight, caught her unaware, like a spear thrown by a hiding coward …

  §

  … converging on her. Three of the Krys approached, carrying wide-tipped blades and clubs studded with crude nails. She thought about being broken. Possessed. She detested their leer of ownership as much as the idea of her loss of freedom.

  Hers was a craft of subtlety. Her mind was as much a weapon as any spear, so she already out-matched the over-muscled lummoxes who thought only with their sword. Perhaps she hadn’t left The Path as much as she protested.

  Her lithe arms stretched taut, Lalyani kicked out to gain momentum. The Krys hacked at the ropes rather than go through the dance of torturously lowering her onto the ant mounds. The arc of Lalyani’s swing landed her on the cusp of the donga as the knives cut through the cords. She entwined the legs of the nearest Krys and brought him to the ground. Still on her back, she eliminated as much space between their hips as possible and locked her feet tightly at the ankles so her thighs could squeeze his lower ribs. Lalyani shifted her hips to her left then fell towards her right, kicking his legs into the air and using him as a shield to deflect the blows of the second Krys. Heavy blades landed on her shield. The second Krys realized his error and spun off balance which allowed her left hand to under hook him at his shoulder. Her right over hooked at his biceps. She sat into him, straightening her right leg as if stretching to run. She rolled him over his head against her side, then drove her weight into his skull until she heard the terrible snap. She laid on his corpse to allow his blade to free her.

  Palming his blade, she head-butted the approaching Krys before she scrambled away. Still weaponless, to all appearances, her eyes narrowed to grim slits. The last Krys gripped the hilt of his club with the fury of emotion. Trembling, the stink of fear rose from him. She met his charge with a fierce desperation, dodging his initial swipe and returning with a kick into his dangling bits. The man gasped and doubled over. Rage bubbled up in his eyes, another man easily led to distraction as he rained blows upon her without forethought or form, an ox yoked about. He disgusted her, little more than brute clubbing, and she parried his clumsy strokes. A deadness in his eyes, his would not be a warrior’s death, but an ending to misery. Before his body registered what happened, she slipped within his guard and slit his throat.

  Harlaramu had returned to his obscene nursery, treating the wounds of the next tokoloshe. Chain spread-eagled on his table, flecks of blood dotted its face from its earlier wounds. Fatigue and fear characterized its face as it stared vacantly upward. A movement in the doorway focused its attention, causing Harlaramu to turn. His countenance was reduced to an ashy mask of terror, his wild eyes scanning for any exit other than the one Lalyani blocked. She leaned a little too heavily on her spear which had been planted just outside his hut as if awaiting her head to mount. Weary, wounds still bleeding, she took in ragged breaths. The image of her—not the picture of a woman about to pass out but rather one in the throes of barely restrained battle frenzy—was even more terrifying.

  Lalyani grabbed him by his hair and forced his head back, setting her blade against his jugular. She pondered the type of death he deserved, but a slit throat was too quick. Her knotted muscles dragged him back to the lip of the donga. She shoved him over the edge. The ants swarmed. Hundreds up his legs. Harlaramu screamed as if he’d been plunged into boiling water. Blood ran down his legs, and he sank into the quagmire of ants. Little more than …

  §

  … an abandoned flower in the dust. Lalyani chanced one last glance at the kraal she once called home, then took her first steps on the Journey to Asazi, the journey to We Know Not Where.

  Rite of Passage

  The 3rd of June, 1651

  My grave would one day smell much like the odor that haunted me, even now. Loamy, stale, and moldy, the cargo hold captured a bleakness that shriveled my soul. I ran my hand along the rough-hewn planks. Dried blood flaked away like an ancient coat of paint, reminding me of journeys past.

  “Captain William Sparke. A civilized man such as yourself shouldn’t stay down here longer than he has to,” my boatswain, Jeffery Hawkins, said. The owner, my father, fitted the ship as I tarried with my wife and child during my brief stay; so I was still acquainting myself with the crew. As they were with me. Mr. Hawkins, long employed by my father, strode down the cargo hold steps with the swagger of a bully, his cat-o’-nine-tails dangled at his side as his badge of office.

  An old hunk of a sailor, surly and grizzled, Mr. Hawkins’ every movement simmered with a brooding anger in need of venting. A scar carved upward from his lips, a devil’s grin, as if a large hook had caught him in his mouth. The crew made no allusion to it or its origin. Scores of tiny wrinkles circled cruel, uneducated eyes; when he settled them upon you, his gaze produced an increased nervousness within you.

  “I was inspecting the hold before we set sail. Were you successful in delivering the …”

  “… Cargo, sir. Think of them as cargo. I’m betting you’ll sleep better at night. We’re preparing to load, with the Cap’n’s permission.”

  “Tell the lads to step smart and prepare for final inspection.”

  “Begging the Cap’n’s pardon, but we could have set sail yesterday.”

  “Yesterday was the Sabbath, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Of course, Cap’n.”

  I ascribed my dislike of Mr. Hawkins to his simmering disrespect for me. His cavalier impudence was suffered only because he handled the crew well. He maintained a strict code of conduct. The men scurried as we walked past. Dark as sun-toasted pears and twice as hard, they were a ragged bunch with their shaggy beards and unkempt hair. I awaited the arrival of the Cargo from the main deck.

  Jacob’s Galley of London, a tall, goodlie ship, was re-christened after my son. I feared, and lo
ved, two things: God and the sea. My whole life I dreamt of the sea. So much so that my father had little choice but to give me my own ship once I completed my schooling. Canoes dotted the sea like surface skimming insects bloated to overflowing with … Cargo. The launches ported at the boarding area long enough to spew their load. I knew how Charon felt overseeing the arriving dead. This, my first Captaincy, churned my stomach not with anticipatory glee, but with knots of revulsion.

  “Stand by the lines to load,” Mr. Hawkins barked.

  “Some of their own are returning with us as translators,” I said.

  “No matter, sir, I speak their language.”

  “What language is that?”

  “Pain.” He patted his cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “While I don’t swear by the horrendous tales spread by the naysayers, I won’t abide any unnecessary cruelty to the Cargo. I run a clean ship.”

  “I know you will, Cap’n.” He didn’t bother to hide the disdain that laced his voice. “The only trouble I expect is while we’re still in sight of their land.”

  The tropical sun glared without mercy upon my ship. The swarms of flies worsened the intolerable humidity. We couldn’t long endure the malignity of the air and the diseases that it carried. The males—ironed together with hand manacles and leg shackles and naked save for the white cloth that girded their loins—paused on the loading plank for a last glance at the Whidah port. I left Mr. Hawkins to attend to the details of the loading. I retreated, if only for a brief respite, to my cabin.

  The heat from my cabin raked my skin. With good trade winds we would reach Hispaniola in two months. The sooner this damnable trip was underway the sooner it ended. The bill of lading taunted me from my desk with its bold print: viz. 266 males, 134 females. Invested properly, I could retire from the commission on the gross sales as well as receive ten of the Cargo for myself. Better to concentrate on running an efficient ship: chart courses, plan provisions, and judge how close to pack the Cargo.