by Jenny Robson
“Yes,” said the trader. “They have moved further south. Another two days of travel. And our water was almost at an end!”
“But why? Why did they move?”
“Aah. This was explained to us. It was the problem of their well. First the water began to smell bad. Then the cattle began to sicken. The children too. They say it was the work of the chief’s head councillor. He was stripped of his power for his bad advice and forced into exile. They say he employed witchcraft out of revenge.”
I translated all this for Mokomba. He nodded without speaking. But I am glad to know that the citizens of Dom Bashabeng still live and are not enslaved.
I think once we have finished this chronicle, then I will teach Mokomba my language. If he is willing to learn. On Shumba’s boat I remember that he took great delight in trying to speak the languages of the Milk people. And perhaps it will help his healing, to concentrate on other matters.
But such a problem it is: this diversity of languages. I wonder why it is so. I wonder too how would it be if people the world over spoke the same tongue? The Chinese, the Arabs, the Jenz, the Hebrews, the Englishers? Would that bring to an end all the misunderstandings? All the wars and hatreds?
Now that is an interesting thought to explore sometime.
Insha’Allah.
10. Southward on the sunset sea
At the front of the boat, the junior priest was performing a cleansing ritual. Green smoke rose from his gourd while he chanted: “Be gone! Be gone, evil spirits of darkness! Foreign devils of foreign territories. Return to the hell-pits from whence you came! You have no power over us!”
Green smoke covered my father’s face and Chivhu’s. Then Shumba’s, where he stood gazing at a distant storm. Then even your face, Shafiq, though you had already performed your own early-morning prayers! The smell of burning herbs and grasses hung heavy in the air, stronger than the smell of the sea. In that moment I almost believed I was home.
Tshangani and I waited until the junior priest had passed by to cleanse us as well. Coughing from his smoke, we turned back to Martijen.
“Aah yes, lads. It was a strange sight that met us, there on the town outskirts,” Martijen said. He leaned over the rudder towards us so that he could speak quietly. And he looked often to the front of the boat where our fathers sat. Perhaps he had been ordered not to tell us? But of course slaves always disobey orders if they think they will not be caught. I suppose it is the one way they can feel like freemen.
“Yes, lads, this wide and deep pit opened up before us as if many men had dug for many more days. But now all those many men had become bodies – corpses – lying side by side within their own pit. Head to feet and feet to head so as not to waste space. With dead women and dead children and babies too, all about them. Bodies piled high almost to the surface of this enormous grave. It must have been hundreds, I think.”
“What was it? Were they slaughtered?” asked Tshangani.
Myself, I could not speak at all.
“No,” said Martijen. “There was no blood. No wounding. But on some of the topmost bodies I saw large boils. Red and purple in colour and stark against the white of their necks. On their naked chests and arms. Boils as large as the eggs of nesting hens! And with some of the corpses, their fingers were blackened. Yes, as if they had been charred in some fire.”
For a moment Martijen stared down at his own fingers as they grasped the rudder. Then he continued. “Oh and more bodies were piled in carts around the pit. Some of them had slid down to the ground. Sitting as if they were still alive, but sleeping. But who had pushed those carts? Who had stacked those bodies within the pit? That was a mystery. Because there were no living beings anywhere that we could see.”
“Boils? Boils on their necks?” questioned Tshangani. “Dead from boils? How can that be? Even if they were big and strangely coloured!”
But Martijen did not know. They did not stay longer at the pit to investigate. Because you were screaming at them, Shafiq. You were shouting, “It is the Plague. It is the Black Death returned. We must leave. Before we too are struck down. With all haste.”
“And this is a strange circumstance,” Martijen continued. “All those many bodies, some towards the bottom already rotting. And yet there was only a slight stench of decay. And no flies. It was surprising to me. Perhaps death follows a different pattern in the land of the Milk people. Perhaps because of the coldness? Or because of the white rain falling? Or perhaps the bodies of the Milk people are made of different materials than ours?”
Now even Tshangani stayed silent.
And then Shumba ordered Martijen back to his oar as the sails were lowered. An Arab sailor replaced him at the rudder. And once more the counting began. “One and over. Two and over …”
The days passed. The wind increased after some time and filled our sails to bursting. The dark cliffs of the Sahra reappeared, on our left-hand side now, to assure us this was our return journey. Then slowly the land became greener. Lush and deeper even than the greenery of Zimba Remabwe. Of home.
We reached at last the coast of the land of the Yoruba with its many river mouths. And we were brought fresh water and fresh food. Some of the Arab sailors wanted to go ashore, to meet with friends they had made on previous trips. But Shumba ordered the boat forward.
“We must not waste this good breeze and these calm waters,” he said. “That would be foolish when our long journey is near its ending. We have had great luck and blessings. The sea has been kind to us. Most kind and generous, like a loving mother. We must not take her kindness for granted. We do not want to see her other face.”
And then the tall green trees began to vanish. On our left, at last, hills of sand rose and fell. All around the boat, spirits were lightening. The slaves pulled their oars through the water with greater energy, and with their eyes lifted to the horizon. Home drew closer and ever closer.
Tshangani said, “When we get back to Zimba Remabwe we must ask for our initiation rites to begin. It is time now surely. Not so, Mokomba?”
I nodded. This was a strange thing: thoughts of initiation no longer frightened me. No, I welcomed them. It was time to put away the foolishness of my boyhood, time to accept my responsibilities as a full man, and a noble one. No matter how testing those rites would prove.
But no lightening of spirit showed in my father’s face.
It remained rigid as granite, shadowed by dark thoughts. Even when his good friend Chivhu spoke with him. Even when you, Shafiq, addressed him.
This disturbed me. So that one evening with the sea calm as a grass valley and with the sunset red and joyful as our flame-flowers, I went to him.
I said, “ReDombo sir, why are you so downcast? When home and safety are so close to us now?”
It was a long while before he answered. The sun was already set and the sky turned dark and starless.
“My son, there are difficult times ahead. The Nameless One will command that I build this cathedral to the clouds. He will not accept excuses. Not after the expense of this journey. And you know that I cannot disobey his command.”
Oh yes, I knew that disobedience was not possible. Those who disobey the King’s wishes are taken to the top of the wall of death, at the highest summit of the King’s hill. From there, they are hurled down the steep and rocky cliff. As I have told before in this tale. And at the bottom they lie broken and bleeding and dying and guarded, so that no one may give them drink or comfort. Not even those who love them most.
It is a pitiful thing.
So I nodded. I said, “Yes father, I know.”
“But Mokomba, if I build walls so high, they will surely tumble. No matter how skilled my building, no matter how perfectly fitted. Granite blocks will rain down upon the heads of our citizens. And you know well what horror that would bring.”
I nodded again. The lore of our Stonemason clan is clear: should a single brick fall, the whole of our city state will fall. It will shatter asunder. Like a porcelain bowl from Ch
ina hurled against a rock.
You spoke then, Shafiq. You said, “But ReDombo, my friend, there is a substance called mortar. It binds the stones together so that they stick fast and do not fall. It is used always for construction in my homeland. I can ask my friend Mustapha: perhaps he can acquire this substance for you.”
But my father shook his head. “I know of this mortar, Shafiq. But it is the method of lazy and unskilled stonemasons. Our clan would never employ such a method. It goes against all we believe and all we value.”
You put your hand on my father’s shoulder, Shafiq. You said, “But my good friend, this is surely the method employed by the cathedral builders. If they had been still alive, there in their town, they would have explained this to you. If we had been able to stay a little longer, you would have seen this for yourself in the cathedral walls. You would have seen the lines of mortar wedged between the stones.”
Still my father would take no comfort. He said, “I am doomed. Doomed if I build this structure and doomed if I do not. My story will follow the story of my own father before me. There is no hope. Just as there was no hope for my late father in the matter of the granite towers.”
When he said this, I felt afraid almost beyond bearing.
*
I lit the lamp early this evening, here in our small Sofala room. Which is, of course, square-shaped and with sharp corners, like the Milk hut that Tshangani and Mokomba entered. Yet Mokomba seems not to notice this fact or be bothered by it.
He stared quietly into the lamp’s flame. Behind him on the flat wall, huge shadows were gathered.
I thought: Mokomba has been brave in his telling, but there are more difficult episodes to come. Far more painful episodes. Will his courage hold?
Mokomba consulted me now. “Shafiq, shall I tell about my grandfather and about the towers?”
“Why do you ask, Mokomba?”
“Because it is part of our Stonemason lore. It is secret, and to be kept inside our clan. Never to be mentioned to outsiders.”
I know this to be true.
Once at Zimba Remabwe I was allowed into the Queen’s enclosure. To admire ReDombo’s fine handiwork on the inner wall. And I saw then those two towers on the far side, built also of dressed granite stones, perfectly conical and balanced and matching. Rising high above the huts of the Queen’s compound. Like large granary bins.
They were impressive, those towers. Strange and stark in their beauty.
“Who built them, ReDombo?” I had asked.
“It was my father’s handiwork.”
“And what are they for, ReDombo? What is their purpose? I can see no doorway. So how are they entered?”
“No, there are no doorways,” ReDombo had answered. “They are not to be entered. Nor exited.”
“But then what are they for?”
At that, ReDombo had turned his face away. “I cannot say. It is the secret lore of the Stonemason clan,” he said. And his voice had trembled.
In the lamplight, Mokomba said, “But, Shafiq, there is no longer a Stonemason clan of Zimba Remabwe. No, there is only me. So must the secrets still be kept? Yet if I explain about the towers, perhaps this chronicle will make better sense?”
Oh, and I confess, I have wanted so much to know the story of those towers! Yet out of respect for my late friend, I said, “This is for you to decide, Mokomba. When you awake tomorrow, you will see how you feel and what you wish to do.”
I suppose I must add a little about this matter of the Plague. The so-called Black Death.
I learned about it when I was a child: that the people of the Crusades, the Milk people, had died in their thousands upon thousands. Whole villages and towns were wiped away by this terrible sickness of the purple boils that burst open to gush foul-smelling pus and blood. In the lands of the Venice-dwellers and the Genoese, of the Germanics, of the Englishers and the Franks.
“It is because they are dirty,” my history tutor explained. “Yes, they do not wash their hands and feet and faces as we do. And also it was a punishment brought down upon them by their God. He was displeased with them. They came riding into Jeru Salem, these Crusaders, slaughtering innocents and children. So this disease was their just reward. That is why the fingers of sufferers turned black. Yes, as a reminder that it was the work of their own evil hands that caused their suffering. Seven long years it lasted, that first time, emptying whole towns and villages. But there have been other outbreaks since.”
I remember being horrified at the thought of the blackened fingers.
“Is it because of the fingers that it is called the Black Death?” I asked my tutor.
“No, young Shafiq, it is because of the blackness of their wicked hearts. And their unwashed bodies.”
My grandfather said this was all nonsense and he would have to talk to my tutor about sharing falsehoods with students. My grandfather said the Plague began far earlier in the land of China, where there was much washing. Yet still many people in China died. My grandfather said the disease was carried by traders from China into the lands of the Milk people, carried in the spices they bought and sold.
“Spices?! What nonsense, Brother!” said my great-uncle. He and my grandfather argued often. Always loudly. And about all manner of things. “It was not the spices that carried the diseases. No, it was the rats that hid in the spices. And in the Chinese silks and other goods. Great black Chinese rats travelling from east to west. Yes, multiplying and producing young in great numbers as they journeyed. I saw them with my own eyes, running through the streets of the Germanic cities.”
“Rats! Ridiculous, Brother!” argued my grandfather. “How can rats make boils? You believe any foolishness you hear!”
But then my mother entered the room. She begged them both to stop their arguing in front of me.
There is a strange fact, though. Just before I left Egypt, I heard of an outbreak of this Black Death in our own port city of Alexandria. And in other Egyptian towns. So who can tell what is the true cause? Rats or spices or uncleanliness or punishment from God? Perhaps it is just seeds carried on the wind, blown this way and that across the entire world?
I remember one appalling story concerning the Plague. A story about the Mongol General, Jani Beg. It happened maybe a hundred years ago. Yes, that is how long this Plague has plagued mankind!
But I will write of Jani Beg tomorrow. I am weary now.
Weary and wondering if tomorrow I will hear finally the story of ReDombo’s father and the two towers.
Insha’Allah.
11. Homeward across the desert sands
Yes, and I have decided, Shafiq. I will tell the story concerning the building of the towers.
It will pain me, I think. Even though my grandfather was late long before I was born.
It was the time when my father ReDombo was a child, only nine winters. And the king of Zimba Remabwe by that time was MtotonyaTsi.
This king had two grown sons, born of his chief wife. And these two sons were ambitious and greedy and longing for power. They grew weary of waiting to inherit the Kingdom. So they plotted together to kill their father, MtotonyaTsi. And then to share his throne.
But a fortress guard overheard their plans. He ran up the steep steps of the King’s hill, shouting all the way. “Treason! There is treason afoot, oh Nameless One.”
The punishment for treason has always been the wall of death. But royal princes may not suffer such a fate. It is not allowed that their bodies be bruised and broken. Not even the bodies of treasonous royal princes.
So instead the King called for the chief Stonemason, my grandfather.
He commanded, “You will build two towers, side by side. There behind the royal hut of the Queen. Towers shaped like granary bins without doors or entrances. Towers as tall as the outer walls of the Queen’s enclosure.
“Yes, oh Nameless One,” said my grandfather. He did not ask why. Kings may not be questioned.
But when my grandfather went to the appointed place behind t
he Queen’s hut, he found a terrible thing. The two sons were tethered there, one on each side. Tethered like wayward goats. Guards stood by so that none might help the young men. Neither cut them loose, nor give them water and comfort. Not even their mother.
And the circles for the two towers were already marked into the earth: one circle around each tethered prince.
And can you imagine, Shafiq? Can you imagine what torment it was for my grandfather? That he must use his skills to build tombs for living men? He must supervise his slaves to construct these towers, brick upon brick, round and round and higher and higher until even the faces of these sons were hidden inside. And then higher and higher still, to the height of five and a half men.
And all the while, these two young men pleaded. For water. For freedom. For mercy. While the Queen and all their sisters wept.
The King visited once. Speaking from behind the gauze curtains of his sedan chair, he addressed the Queen. Yes, in front of all those gathered, even my grandfather’s slaves! He said, “Every morning you will look upon these towers and you will be warned afresh: do not nurture snakes against your breasts. Watch carefully over your younger sons and teach them well, so that they do not follow the ways of your older sons!”
When at last the towers were completed, the princes inside them had long fallen silent.
But my grandfather still heard their cries inside his mind. He could not bear the burden and he was found in the forest hanging from a tree branch. Dead by his own hand. So that even his spirit cannot join our ancestors, but must wander lost in the lowlands.
Whilst the Queen descended into madness, walking around each tower in turn. Talking and singing lullabies to her dead children.
So you understand, Shafiq? This is why my father said, “I am doomed. Like my father before me.” He too was without a path of escape through his dilemma.
Oh, but treason! Let me tell you about treason!
As our boat finally made landfall, there beside the village of the not-witches, my heart was filled with treason. As the Arab sailors and the slaves cheered and danced joyfully on solid land, the thoughts in my head terrified me.
