Zulu Heart

by Steven Barnes

  At last he glimpsed golden hair and broad shoulders, a familiar lanky, confident gait. His father, Mahon, best fisherman and fighter in all the crannog. The desperately beloved figure was striding away from him, growing smaller at every moment. “Da!” he called.

  Mahon looked back over his shoulder without apparent recognition, then began to walk faster. Aidan ran through the streets, glimpsing his father at each turn, until finally cornering him.

  His father turned.

  Mahon O’Dere had two mouths, one beneath his nose, for speech and eating and kissing. The other grinned beneath his chin, gifted him with a single golden knife stroke by a bear-headed Northman.

  There seemed reproach in his father’s eyes, sadness, an emotion verging on anger. And Aidan was shocked to realize that, without a word being spoken, he knew why.

  Then that uncanny psychic bond was rendered irrelevant. The dead man spoke. Not with tongue, but with the ghastly lipless maw of that second, lower mouth.

  “Nesssssaaa …”

  Clutching at his blanket, Aidan sat erect with a sudden, sharp exhalation, choking on the scream lodged in his throat. His beloved lay drowsing beside him, her every silken exhalation a reassurance. Aidan ran his palm over his hair, then hers, and lay back down. Although he feared that slumber might never come again, within minutes his snores had once more intertwined with hers.

  After slow sleepy hours the eastern horizon began to blush, sending night’s starlit canopy into retreat. Slowly, the village responded to the increase in light and warmth, stirring from their beds as the forest flowers opened to the dawn. Irish and German, Scot and Greek, they emerged yawning from their houses and commenced their daily tasks.

  In one little shack to the west of the central fire pit, Sophia conducted classes. Most of the children, and some of the adults, were there. Few of the crannog’s adults could read or write, but their strength and skills were necessary for farmwork. Books were as precious as gold.

  “Well,” Sophia said, “who will spell caliph for us?”

  A girl rose and walked to the rude board against the wall. With a piece of charcoal, she spelled the word out in Arabic: halifa-t.

  In the back of the classroom sat several adults, also learning to read and write. One of them was Konso, a stout, grizzled, freedman whose freckled face seethed with anger.

  “Why I got to learn this shyte?” Konso complained. “We free now! We should go back to our own talk—”

  Some of the other former slaves buzzed with agreement.

  “And what language would that be?” Sophia asked. “Irish? German? Latin? There are too many of us, from too many different places.”

  “Then we make up new words.” He glowered. “Anything’s better than this A-rab double tongue.”

  Sophia understood his pain completely, but could not allow the part of her that agreed with him to find voice. What if we created a language, and then taught it to our children. How do they speak it to the blacks who control this land?”

  “To hell wit’ the shadows!” Konso shouted, slamming his fist against the wall hard enough to shake it.

  “Yes,” Sophia said. “To hell with them. But with us, too. I didn’t want this world, but it’s the one I live in. And my children, or my children’s children, are going to have their chance to benefit by my sweat and blood. If you can’t speak Arabic, if you don’t understand the men who rule this land, you’ll never get your piece of it.”

  “Who the hell wants a piece of it? I just want be left alone.”

  Sophia walked back between the rows until she stood over him, balled fists set on her hips. “Then go. Go on; be alone, or take with you whoever is of like mind. But I believe that things will change. I don’t know if I’ll live to see it, but my grandchildren will, and they will know that their grandmother prepared them for that world.”

  She walked back to her place at the head of the room, anger and pain and other long-repressed emotions wrestling in her heart. She knew what Konso wanted, and it wasn’t terribly different from what she herself desired. A home! A place to call hers, where she would not be forever an outsider, an interloper, a quasi-human oddity given freedom revocable by any black with a grudge.

  “We study this,” she said, measuring each word carefully, “so that we can have our own world, where we can be left alone.” Konso was watching her now. Listening. Like the others, he wanted to believe. “Where we can raise our children and preserve the ways of our people.” She leaned forward and pronounced each word with firm emphasis: “But we have to speak their language to do it.”

  The others looked back at Konso. He raised a thick, gnarled hand and scratched at the bare spot above his frizz of hair and then shook his head slowly. “All right,” he said, and jutted his jaw at her. “You teach. I learn.”

  She turned back to the board, sighing with relief. As she began to write, her mind buzzed. How will I get us through this? She asked herself a dozen times a day. How do I unite these fragile twigs into a bundle strong enough to stand? Because if I cannot …

  If we cannot unite …

  We are doomed.

  In the early part of the day Aidan usually made repairs, but this morning he walked the narrow, muddy streets with the intent to meet Donough and see if they couldn’t wreak a little havoc on the lake’s aquatic population.

  “Aidan! Guten Morgen!” called Hans, one of the newer arrivals.

  “Wie geht es Ihnen?” Aidan answered, those six words comprising half his German vocabulary.

  “Kalimera,” called another, a stocky former mine slave from the Egyptian Sea. By great good fortune, this man had apparently earned his freedom by saving his master from a cave-in within two years of his date of capture.

  “B’teke Araby?” Aidan asked. Do you speak Arabic? The man, whose name was … Stavros. Yes, that was it. Stavros pouted a bit, and then began a painfully clumsy greeting in the tongue he hated.

  Donough clapped Aidan on the shoulder. “Och,” the big man said. “Another wonderful day in O’Dere Crannog.”

  “Don’t call it that,” Aidan growled.

  “But it is,” Donough said reasonably enough. “This is O’Dere Crannog, sure as you’re living.” He clapped a bearlike hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “We have a real, genuine O’Dere right here, and I say yer fathers are smilin’ on ye.” He paused. “O’ course, that Simon cursed us a bit when he left this mornin’, but that’s only natural. I guess he wanted a bit more than food and water and a map to the Nations.”

  “So would I,” Aidan said, but relaxed a bit. They had done the right thing. Perhaps the nightmares could recede after all. “Maybe. Maybe you’re right.” He thumped his friend’s solid gut.

  “Now,” Donough said. “Let’s not keep the fishies waiting, shall we?”

  “It would be rude.”

  “Aye,” Donough said, grinning. “And if I’ve learned any lesson at all, it’s to be anything but rude.”

  “Kill them, yes. Insult them, no,” Aidan agreed.

  Donough chuckled. “We are talkin’ about fishies, ain’t we…?”

  PART II

  Radama

  “So often in the affairs of men,” said the student, “we must come together in groups, to accomplish those things beyond our individual strength.”

  “This is true,” said the teacher.

  “I know I can trust Allah. My family. My tutor.”

  His teacher inclined his head modestly.

  “But how do I trust strangers?”

  “Trust them not. Instead, rely upon them.”

  “What?” said the student. “This I do not understand.”

  “Rely upon men to do what is in their best interests.”

  “Appeal, then, to their higher natures?”

  “No. Many are unaware they have such a thing. Instead, appeal to their greed and fear. That net is wider, and catches all.”

  “Even the wise?”

  “Yes,” said the master. “Even the wise, who are greedy fo
r knowledge, and fear Allah.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  20 Ramadan A.H. 1294

  (Friday, September 28, 1877)

  By Ghanjah-style flat-bottomed steam-screw, Kai and Fodjour traveled the Brown Nile north to Radama, capital of New Djibouti, a four-day trip for Kai to take his place in the Territorial Senate.

  The steam-screw’s deck rocked mildly in the river current. The riverbanks to east and west were dotted with cottonwoods, sycamores, and tiny human figures waving greeting as the mighty ship passed. Skiffs and canoes drifted with the tide, crowded with fishermen pulling at their nets. The occasional heliograph relay tower flashed its messages toward the horizon.

  With faithful Fodjour at his side, Kai wandered close to a knot of men who stood at their ease, sipping coffee. He pretended to gaze at the riverbanks as he eavesdropped on their conversation.

  “Word has come,” the first said. “Tensions increase between Abyssinia and Egypt.”

  “Why?” asked the second, silver-bearded gentleman.

  “Fighting over European colonies, trade routes …”

  The second man persisted. “War between the Twin Thrones is no longer merely possible—it is inevitable.”

  “The better to increase tensions already dire. North and south have little enough in common now. We hold the Empress close to our hearts, while the north licks the Pharaoh’s backside.”

  “And what if war came?”

  The first man clenched his fists. “We would fly to the Empress’s aid. The Red Sea would be red with blood.”

  “It is not so easy.”

  “Things never are.”

  The second man pressed his point. “By treaty and law, Bilalistan is an Egyptian colony. To violate that treaty, to war with Egypt, would negate millions of Alexanders in trade agreements, worldwide. Allah alone knows the chaos it would cause.”

  “Millions? Surely you exaggerate.”

  “I fear not.” The silver-bearded one turned, his eyes widening with recognition. “Greetings, young Wakil. I am Al-Hakir.” The man was older and something of an oiled and perfumed dandy. His shirt was of Chinese silk.

  “Kai ibn Jallaleddin ibn Rashid.” Kai bowed politely.

  “Of Dar Kush. A pleasant day, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “If only all days could be so placid.”

  Kai nodded, waiting for Hakir to conclude pleasantries. “Indeed.”

  The silver beard fluttered in the breeze. “I find it likely that these will be more placid than those ahead.”

  “Truth?” He could almost hear his father’s whisper in his ears. Take care, my son. The spider spins his web.

  Hakir leaned close enough for Kai to smell the rose oil in his beard. “I was your father’s … friend.”

  Kai’s smile remained in place, but inside he went cold. Hakir’s emphasis was clear, his intent clearly political. Had Kai not known that there were code words to be exchanged, he might have relaxed his guard. Or would he? A closer inspection of Hakir suggested that there were indeed clues to warn the cautious. The silk shirt, for instance. The stern Abu Ali would never have condoned such effeminacy among his confidants. “He never spoke of you.”

  “There was much he could not speak of,” said Hakir. “Much you should know. Come to the meeting, tonight. Bilalistan must be free!”

  And with those words, Hakir retreated.

  Kai watched after him. “What does he want?” he asked, wondering what Fodjour would make of it.

  Fodjour laughed without humor. “Little save your money, your power, and your name.” Well said. “Faith! How do you know whom to trust?”

  A fine question, one to which Kai had no immediate answer.

  Fodjour grunted. “Was your father truly involved in this movement?”

  Kai shrugged. “He never spoke of it to me.”

  “I notice you haven’t answered my question.”

  Kai laughed. If the mantle of Wakil had graced Fodjour’s shoulders instead of his own, his friend might have excelled. “Very good. I will say instead, then, that I believe he was very interested in the future of this nation, and never thought that Bilalistan would remain an Egyptian protectorate.”

  Fodjour cocked his head to the side. “Were there no papers among his effects?”

  “A few things. I assume he was involved, but could not swear either way.” Again, an evasion, but this time Fodjour didn’t seem to notice.

  “Then you must take care. Evidence of your father’s involvement in a Bilalian freedom movement could cost your seat in the Senate.”

  “Who would press for such a thing?” Kai’s puzzlement was genuine.

  “Governor Pili, for one.”

  “But why?”

  Fodjour looked at his old friend as if he were addressing a child. “He opposed many of your father’s policies, but Abu Ali and Malik were a mighty team, both politicians and lauded soldiers. For the governor to stand against them—when he himself has never lifted sword in battle—would have seemed cowardly.”

  Again, well-reasoned. “But my own war record is less than golden.”

  “To some. But make no mistake: to others, you are a hero. You received your captaincy after your return, so some of those admirers are in the military council.” His face went soft, eyes questioning and dreamy. “Kai, men such as we, men of destiny … we never really know who we are. But then, after we are dead, historians will argue endlessly about who we were.”

  Kai thought for a time, and then nodded. A river’s breeze and an honest friend’s conversation. Both were cleansing to the mind. “I know who you are,” he said. “And you know me. And that, for now, is enough.”

  21 Ramadan A.H. 1294

  (Saturday, September 29, 1877)

  Radama was a frontier capital, with all of the energetic and occasionally slapdash architecture that that implied. Most of the city was a maze of brick and adobe buildings, few taller than three stories. Where more space existed, for instance in the affluent section of town, one found gardens and estates built more in the round, with symbolic structures fashioned in circles of stone or mock-stone obelisks as tall as two men, reminding Kai of light-paintings of Zimbabwean architecture.

  The steam-screw nested its curved stem against the dock just after noon. Kai and Fodjour hired a cart and relaxed as bustling bondsmen took control of their luggage and persons, delivering both to the most luxurious hotel Radama had to offer, a three-storied guest mansion with an Asian flavor. Malagasy perhaps? It was those sailors who had established sea routes to China, returning with both material and cultural riches.

  After a quick bath and a pause for prayer, the friends found their way to the Senate building, which held both the Round and a less formal meeting hall, where provincial delegates milled and debated the day’s issues.

  Bilalistan was governed by the Caliph, through appointment by the Pharaoh. He was certainly the greatest power in the land, the only real rival being the Ayatollah, who led Bilalistan’s spiritual college of scholars, the Ulema. While having no direct legal power, the Ulema’s religious proclamations and interpretations of both the Recitation and the life of the Prophet held great sway, and could be ignored by no leader who wished to keep either title or head.

  While the Ulema was the voice guiding a Bilalian’s inner life, the Caliph controlled the reins of secular government. Beneath him was the military council, composed of the highest officers in army and navy, and the forces composing the territorial guards, of which Kai himself was an officer.

  The landowners controlled the Senate, their seats conferred by appointment and subsequent inheritance. The National or “Grand” Senate was composed of delegates from the Territorial or “Lesser” Senates, one of which was held yearly, or upon demand. The system had worked for two hundred years, and might for a thousand more….

  Or might not.

  The Senate was an exhilarating experience, and Kai had found it so since his first visit there, the year after his father’s death. Then he had m
erely observed, but had received a standing ovation, honored both as the son of a dead senator, and as a hero in his own right. But this time was different; this would be his first active participation, and he was pleased to have Fodjour along as friend and advisor.

  One of the things he most enjoyed about the Territorial was the fact that, by custom, the delegates wore clothing and headdress honoring not only Bilalian traditions, but their ancestors on the mother continent.

  So, intricate Fulani beadwork, veiled Tuareg men, wigged Danakil, and feathered Kikuyu sat side by side with formal military dress and Indian-style coats and trousers.

  It was late afternoon before the Zulus made their entrance. Four of them, wearing leopard skins and golden bangles, haughty and imperious, as if they were foreign dignitaries instead of settlers of a territory owing allegiance to the Caliph.

  Kai shrank back into a shadow as Cetshwayo and his entourage passed. He was not yet ready to deal with Shaka Zulu’s younger brother.

  Behind him, a delegate asked, “If there was war, for whom would the Zulu raise his spear?”

  A second delegate shrugged. “It is hard to say. They are wild and independent. Most likely, they would wait for both sides to weaken, and then strike for their own land.”

  Kai admired the man’s clarity: that was exactly what he himself would suppose a perfect Zulu strategy.

  “I think it may well depend upon the side which offers them the best terms,” said the first. “One ought not count on family ties where there are none, or loyalty where it has never been displayed before.”

  “Come, Sidi,” said the second. “They fought in the Aztec Wars.”

  The first delegate gave a low chuckle. “The Aztecs threatened to attack Zulu homelands. Our frontiersmen were merely fighting a war on another’s territory, always a sound strategy.”

  “So cynical!” the second chided.

  “They are not Muslim, nor do they owe fealty to Pharaoh or Empress. Draw your own conclusions.”

  Kai moved away before he could be trapped into the discussion, or indeed, one of them noticed his eavesdropping.

  In the past years he had studied Zulu history in depth. The first major wave of Zulus left Africa following a war of succession some four generations earlier. Discontents, fortune-seekers, and families seeking cheap fertile land and empire had been immigrating ever since.