Granite

by Jenny Robson

  “The sea? The sunset sea?” I was filled with dread. I knew the stories, even though the sunset sea was far away and I had never laid eyes on it. “But it is full of monsters and fish larger than elephants and fiercer than lions! And water that boils suddenly as if in a giant’s pot on a giant’s fire!”

  “This is the King’s command,” said my father with stern warning in his voice. Even though only the four of us were present.

  Tshangani’s father Chivhu spoke now. Wanting to comfort me. “The great Shumba will lead us. He is our finest and bravest explorer. He knows the wildest sea and the wildest land. He will find the way through.”

  I kept silent then. But I was thinking: Shumba came back from his last expedition with half his slaves missing. And missing as well, half his left arm.

  Beside me, Tshangani was smiling with hope and excitement. “And us too, father? Must we go too?”

  Chivhu nodded. But he was not excited like his son. “Yes, the King wants a full report made of the travels.”

  “But why?” I asked. “For what purpose?”

  It was my father who explained.

  The King had heard tales of tall buildings in faraway lands. Buildings that were far higher than my father’s walls. Buildings that stretched up to touch the very clouds. Buildings that were called by the name “cathedral”.

  And the King wanted such a cathedral built here in Zimba Remabwe. My father must find out therefore how these buildings could be constructed in safety. He must investigate the methods of the Stonemason clans there in the lands of the Crusaders.

  The lands of the Crusaders? Oh holiest god Mmwahhari! Was that our destination? It was more terrifying to me than crossing the sea!

  And I saw that my father too was afraid. And Chivhu with him. Only Tshangani still stood with the light of excitement and adventure in his eyes.

  But Tshangani did not know the stories about these people of the white bodies, these Crusaders. I had never passed them on to him. I could not bear such words to pass my lips.

  Stories that you told, Shafiq.

  To my father, do you remember?

  But I heard them too, eavesdropping from my sleeping-mat in the sons’ hut. Yes, Shafiq, I confess to you. Those late nights when you and my father sat at the fire still talking, I was awake inside my hut and listening too. Unable to stop myself.

  You told how the Crusaders came marching across the deserts to the Arab town of Jeru Salem. Marching all the long way from their own lands, a hundred hundred of them. With blood-red crosses on their banners and blood-red rage in their hearts. Because they said Jeru Salem was the home of their own god. And they slaughtered the women and the children and the babies until the streets of Jeru Salem were thick and slimed and slippery with blood. Scattered with severed heads and limbs.

  And then the Crusaders would invade my dreams like a hundred hundred milk-coloured ghosts with blood-red teeth.

  My father said, “It is the King’s command. We have no choice, Mokomba. Just as your grandfather had no choice when he was commanded by the King’s late father, MtotonyaTsi. Come. We will break this news to your mother. And we will ready ourselves.”

  That was the evening my sister Raii caused such commotion. She is my twin sister and she has been always difficult and uncontrolled and with a wild tongue.

  When she was a newborn baby, she survived the three days and nights left out in the forests and beside the waterhole of the lions. In midwinter. As instructed by the midwife because she was a twin and a girl.

  And she has always been like this, loud and demanding, and forgetting at times that she is only a girl and of little importance.

  *

  This was my fault. Beneath it all I, Shafiq bin Fatmar, must bear the blame for this mad expedition.

  It was late one night when I was summoned to the King’s chambers. His subjects knew well how he kept strange, unnatural hours. But willingly I climbed those many, many steps, slippery in the rain. Perhaps the King wanted to discuss further this matter of writing? And I was eager for that, eager to begin my teaching.

  I had considered it deeply by then. Many sounds of the language of Zimba Remabwe were similar to sounds of my Arabic tongue. So therefore Arabic letters could be used. For the other sounds, I would need to create letter-shapes of my own. Yes, that would be the best way.

  Because the nobles’ sons must surely learn to write in their own language?

  And I was planning how I could teach them with sticks in the sand. At least until Mustapha’s papers and inks and pens arrived. That was how I learned first to write as a small boy, when paper was scarce and expensive.

  So yes, I climbed the steepness of the hill willingly.

  Guards posted along my way held torches that burned into the darkness. I was grateful for the light. Many of those steps were treacherous and narrow, particularly the steps closest to the summit.

  But no. The King did not want to discuss writing. So of course I dared not mention it.

  From behind his curtains of silk and gauzes, he said, “I cannot sleep, Shafiq the Arab. So tell me your stories of foreign places. Yes, your voice has a soothing quality.”

  I spoke on and on, recalling the tales of my grandfather.

  “Yes, and the Emperor of China has a giraffe there in his palace. A present from an Afrikan king from the land of the Jenz. This giraffe is a great wonder to the people of the Chinese court. Its droppings are collected for medicines and potions.”

  Still the King did not sleep. So I moved on to the stories about the Crusaders, as told to me by my great-uncle.

  I must be fair in my telling of facts. The Crusader massacres in Jeru Salem happened many, many years ago. More than a hundred, so my history tutor said. Yet still these people are known in my country as the Crusaders. I suppose it is easier than remembering their many tribal names: Germanics and Venice-dwellers and Franks and Englishers. And Bavarians and Austriars and Genoese. And more.

  “Yes, your majesty,” I said through the gauzes. “Their bodies are white all over, white as the milk of your royal herds. And with strange colours in their long hair and long beards: yellow as the gold from your mines; red as the flowers of the flame trees. And with eyes blue as the sky, or green as the grass. It is a great strangeness and wonder to all.”

  I spoke on and on, wondering if the King was now fallen asleep. Would his chamber-servants tell me? My throat grew dry and sore.

  Then I heard the King’s voice. Even this close, it seemed to echo with his power and majesty. “These cathedrals you speak of, Shafiq. Is it the truth that they reach high as the very clouds?”

  “So my great-uncle explained, oh Nameless One. I have not seen them with my own eyes.”

  “Aaha!” said the King.

  And a little later, the chamber-servant told me that the King was sleeping peacefully at last. And with a smile on his countenance.

  It was the early-morning council meeting. In the mist, as Mokomba tells.

  I sat on the long stone bench beside ReDombo. Most of the nobles were present. Shumba as well, the great explorer, newly returned from some insane journey across the sunset sea, and with his left arm only a stump and still healing.

  From the rock-throne way above us, way above the eagle statues, the King’s voice echoed through the mist. “ReDombo, you will go to investigate these cathedral buildings. Shafiq the Arab, you will guide him to this land of the Milk people.”

  The King’s word is a binding command. There is no arguing to be done. No heads may be shaken in disagreement. Even though his words struck terror in the hearts of those around me.

  Not in my heart though. Like young Tshangani, the idea of travel was always delightful to me. Wanderlust runs through my body along with my blood.

  So there in the sand of the council ground, I drew a map. Such as the map I have sketched for this chronicle. Hoping the King would see it through the dampness of the mist.

  I said, “This is the best route, oh Nameless One. We walk eastwar
d to Sofala with the merchants. In Sofala here, we will wait for the monsoon winds. Then a dhow will carry us northwards along the coast, through the waters of the sea of sunrise. To my home country, Egypt.”

  I heard ReDombo’s gasp of anxiety behind me.

  I said, “Your people will all be made welcome in my country. Welcome and treated with courtesy. We are a worldly-wise people, accepting of those who are different from us in looks or manners. Then my cousins will help guide us past Jeru Salem and westwards into the territories of the Crusaders – the Milk people. My cousins and I can speak the languages of these peoples. Even though they have many different tongues.”

  And that was when Shumba took the drawing stick from my hand. Forceful as always, with his voice booming and echoing and filling the rocky council hall.

  “No, no, oh Nameless One. I have a better way. It will bring us to the same destination. Yes. First we head westwards towards the sea of sunset. My boat lies waiting in the sands there at the village of the not-witches. We will board with my Arab sailors and sail northwards. Past the land of the Yoruba. Past the Kingdom of Adashanti. Then on until we reach the lands of these Milk people.”

  And who can argue with Shumba? He is the hero of all Zimba Remabwe. He is the King’s beloved.

  I looked down at the directions he had traced.

  I wanted to ask him how far north he had in fact sailed on this sea of sunset. And what in fact had become of his missing slaves and his missing arm? But I had to hold my peace.

  That was when my own heart began to quake with terror. I wanted to cut out my tongue forever speaking that word “cathedral”. Why had I not told the King about the pyramids instead? Those high, high structures left behind by the ancients of my own country. True, the pyramids did not touch the clouds. But in my country, in Egypt, there are few clouds in the sky.

  And so I am to blame for the calamity which followed.

  Allahu Akbar.

  3. At the mouth of the cave of Mmwahhari

  So let me speak about this trouble with my sister Raii.

  It was evening and we were sharing our evening meal. You were not there, Shafiq. You went out walking alone beside the forests that night of the King’s command. You were gone till deep into that night.

  And my mother was sobbing.

  “I don’t understand this thing. Why must my husband and my son take this dangerous journey?”

  My father ReDombo explained over and over. He is a kind and tolerant husband. “The King needs a building of his own. One that will bear his name in generations to come. Once he is late and his name can be spoken again. Just as the people look at the hill-fortress and say: ‘Those mighty walls were the project of the great King LaShisha.’ Just as they look at the enclosure of the Queen that we have now completed and say: ‘Yes, that is the memorial to King Mzakane. It was the great King Mzakane who commanded its construction.’ So now the Nameless One commands that a cathedral be built.”

  “But if you never return?” sobbed my mother.

  Then Raii stamped her foot beside the fire. Yes, stamped in anger. Right there in the presence of our parents.

  “I want to go too. I want to ride in a boat across the sea of sunset. I want to visit the lands of these Milk people and see their hair the colour of gold and their eyes blue as sky. Why is it that Mokomba can but I cannot?”

  My father held his temper. “Don’t be silly, child. Don’t behave as if you have no sense. You are a girl. A girl’s place is within her family compound. Not wandering through foreign territories.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you have a girl’s duties to perform. You have firewood to collect and water to draw. There is sweeping to be done. And cooking. And who else will watch your little sister?”

  “This is not fair!” Raii screamed. Yes, screamed. Then she ran sobbing into the daughters’ hut with her meal half-eaten.

  My mother and father shook their heads, despairing.

  “I fear for that child,” said my father ReDombo. “Some wicked spirit surely entered her body as she lay there at the watering hole. When I return we will take her to the spirit-cleanser once more. Something must be done before she brings disgrace to our clan.”

  In those days of waiting for the journey to begin, my father spent much time praying at our family shrine. He spoke long and earnestly to our ancestors, naming each by name. Back through the generations.

  “Protect us, oh departed ones. Travel always by the side of my son and myself. Be our shield in the dangerous moments.”

  But not naming my grandfather of course. That is because of the terrible matter of the towers there in the Queen’s enclosure. My grandfather could not help himself in those dark days, back when my father was a boy.

  So how could his spirit help us? And besides, his spirit did not inhabit the granite shrine in our compound. No, it wandered the unhealthy lowlands, lost and broken.

  I often think of my grandfather, even now. Always with sadness. Even though he was gone before I was born.

  And you were praying too, Shafiq. I remember how you unrolled your prayer mat in the corner of the compound. Always facing to the north.

  “That is where the blessed town of Mecca lies,” you explained. “That is the holy city of our prophet Muhammad, peace fall upon him.”

  And you went back to your prayers to your god, long and earnest and with much kneeling and bowing and holding out your hands. And I hoped with all my heart that your god Allah and our spirit ancestors were listening well and with loving hearts.

  Yet and still my friend Tshangani bubbled over with too much excitement. Like a pot forgotten over a fire.

  “Come, Mokomba, you must smile, my friend. We will come back heroes as adored as Shumba. We will take our pick of the daughters of the nobles. Maybe even the King will grant us one of the lesser princesses for a wife. Once our initiation is done.”

  “Yes, like Foneli,” I answered. “Maybe you can have Foneli?”

  Foneli was the fourth daughter of the King’s fourth wife and mad and with a crooked arm and bright pink patches across her cheeks. She was mostly hidden from view though her moans and her strange songs were heard often beyond the Queen’s walls.

  Tshangani punched my arm. “Hear me, Mokomba! This will be a great and wonderful adventure. I am impatient to be moving!”

  Two days before we left, a full meeting was called for all the citizens: nobles and common people. There at the mouth of the holy cave of Mmwahhari, at sunset.

  My sister Raii did not attend. She was still sobbing and stamping and screaming inside her hut that it wasn’t fair.

  I confess I wished with my whole heart that we could swop bodies. So that she could be the boy and go, and I could be the girl and stay.

  How shameful is that? How cowardly? Even if I was not yet initiated.

  I never spoke that wish out loud. Otherwise my parents would have taken me to the spirit-cleanser. Immediately and with deep concern.

  So. This full meeting.

  Outside the mouth of the holy cave, it is strange and frightening and nothing grows. Granite slabs lie at angles as though they have oozed like slime from the hill slope.

  The senior priests were gathered in their robes and wearing their fearsome masks.

  Six cows had to be slaughtered before the voice of Mmwahhari finally came from the depths of the cave. Making the rock beneath us tremble.

  “Our God is pleased,” the chief priest interpreted.

  And Shumba knelt to receive the blood-blessing on his forehead, rubbing at the stump of his severed arm. Around which so many stories had grown.

  Now the singing began. The King stayed awhile, there in his sedan chair behind the silk and gauze curtains that hid him from us. With his giant bodyguards posted around him.

  The King had gifted us travellers with new strong sandals. And with fine karosses: soft and thick and wide and warm. Made of the finest skins.

  His spokesman said, “It is a cold place where you are
headed. So says Shafiq the Arab. But these karosses have been specially blessed. They will keep you warm and safe from harm. No spear can penetrate.”

  The singing continued. And dancing and drumbeating. Deep into the night, with the moon so round it was almost like day. And yes, the excitement touched me too, driving out the fear. So that, when finally I fell onto my sleeping-mat, I dreamed of being a hero, worshipped by my peers and admired by the noble maidens and even the princesses. More admired even than Shumba.

  But when dawn broke on the day of our departing, when we took our places in the long procession, it was not the priests nor the King who stood by to wish us farewell and bestow travel blessings.

  No, it was the prophet Tza. And his words filled me with fear once more.

  *

  He crumbled this morning as we began, poor lad! Crumbled like soft sandstone beneath the hands of an unskilled sculptor.

  It was the moment he made mention of his mother. Tears sprang into his eyes and his voice broke. Soon sobs shook his body and he hid his face in the blanket.

  I said, “Mokomba, it is well. We will leave this task. This is too hard for you. Come, maybe it will help if we go and sit on the roof in the sunshine? Or walk beside the sea?”

  Perhaps my own mother was mistaken? Perhaps silence is the best way to ease the heart. Especially a heart so young and so torn apart with tragedy and loss.

  But then he wiped his face and sat up with his back straightened. He said, “No, Shafiq. The story must be told. And what you said is true: if not by me, then by whom?”

  I picked up my pen once more as he began afresh: “So let me speak about the problem with my sister Raii.”

  As I wrote, I thought: Aah, but this Mokomba is not the coward he believes himself to be. No. Perhaps somewhere deep in his spirit, there is rock as strong as his father’s granite.

  But now.

  There is a strange thing I have noticed with Mokomba’s telling. He ends the day’s dictation at strange points. Always half through an episode. As today now with this matter of the prophet Tza. Why did he not continue and give the prophet’s words?