by Lisa Shea
We headed out along the road, Otorongo leading his horse, me walking at his side. Behind us Manco was murmuring to his two guards. Probably something about keeping an eye on Otorongo to make sure he did not ride off with me. But the very thought of that carved away at me. I did not want to abandon my culture. The mere thought filled me with great sadness.
Otorongo slipped his fingers into mine as we descended down from the beautiful stone structures which had been my home these past years. “I’m so sorry, Inti. I wish I could have brought you better news. But it is the truth. We cannot change it. Not if we sacrificed a thousand warriors or a thousand children. It is not the will of the gods that this is going to happen. It is the foolishness and greed of the conquering invaders. We are simply not prepared to withstand them.”
“But you said illness would lay us low. How can that be? We are a clean people,” I pleaded. “We bathe daily. We understand which foods to eat. Even Huáscar and Atahualpa’s father, Huayna Capac, lived to be eighty years old. And he only died because of that spotted disease.”
Otorongo nodded. “That is the point. The disease will destroy all it comes in close contact with. Bathing will not help. Eating well will not help. There is no way to fight this.”
We worked our way down the road, wending between gently twisting streams and blossoms of wildflowers. As we walked, Otorongo’s frown deepened.
I gave his hand a squeeze. “I see that the dark news coils within you as much it does me.”
“No,” he responded. At my surprised look he added, “well, yes, of course, but I’ve come to terms with it. I accept it as a sad tragedy which is going to occur. But what confuses me more was that I expected my arrival here to involve something fairly … immediate. In the other dreams, it seemed that the dream would begin when action needed to be taken. But here … are we really going to walk quietly down this road for two long weeks? And then discuss what our options will be?”
I gave a soft shrug. “I am afraid I am as confused by these dreams as you are. There are certainly bears and pumas along the route to Cuzco. Bandits as well. Perhaps you are meant to save us from one of those threats?”
He glanced back at Minco and dropped his voice. A line of tension snaked into his shoulders. “The priest had flowers in his hand when he arrived. Has he been … courting you?”
I blushed and looked down. “You know that my stepmother had always hoped for such an occurrence, even though we are clearly of a lower caste. But I always had much simpler dreams.” I lifted my eyes to his. “A match far closer to my own heart.”
His eyes shone, and for a long moment the world faded away.
The porter ahead of us stumbled, and I went to his aid. When I got him back on his feet, I saw that he carried a small knife in one hand and an ivory object in the other.
He smiled when he saw my interest. “I am carving an image of those wildflowers we passed. The ones with the large yellow petals.” He held it out for me to see.
“That is quite a good likeness,” I praised him.
His pointed teeth shone in the sun. “Thank you. My wife stays home with our five children – she has never left the walls of Machu Picchu. So any time I go on a trip, I make a record of my journey for her. That way she can appreciate the sights along the way even long after I have returned.”
I blinked and turned to stare at Otorongo. I had seen many ceremonial pottery items with shapes on them representing birds and animals. But it had not occurred to me that an item might contain a clear representation of something. Why should it, when we had the actual something right there before us?
But perhaps someday we would not.
I stopped and turned to look back up at Machu Picchu, high above us. It was becoming lost in the mists – fading from view. Just as our entire culture would. If Otorongo was correct, even our most beautiful gold and silver treasures would be stolen away by the explorers. Perhaps everything we had created would be destroyed and lost.
My will coalesced.
Not if I could help it.
Otorongo looked between the carved image and me. Then he began to nod. “Yes. I think that might be a solution.”
Manco’s voice came from behind us. “What is this about a solution?”
Otorongo’s face shadowed. “You believe this sacrifice will help stop the winds of change.”
Manco’s eyes became dark. “I know it will. And we will sacrifice, and sacrifice, until the gods are assured of our total devotion.”
We set into motion again.
Long minutes passed. At last Otorongo shook his head, his gaze swinging from the hard-packed road before us to what lay behind. “I still do not understand. Why am I here? Was something about to happen to you, that I inadvertently stopped? Did we need to set out on this road? Was it really as simple as seeing the porter carving his flowers? Surely after you learned the news from me we could have seen his efforts around Machu Picchu before we departed to safety.”
We came around a bend – and Otorongo drew to an attentive stop.
A group of ten merchants was wearily walking their way toward us, their packs piled with tunics, weavings, and blankets. The lead man, his hair grey and grizzled, lit up with a smile when he saw us.
“You! Travelers! Heading down to Cuzco? We have just come from there ourselves. Lucky for you, because you could use our fresh mats to sleep on. These are the finest you’ve ever seen. What have you to trade for them?”
The porter stepped up, offering his carven image. “What do you think of this?”
The merchant’s gaze gleamed with delight. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you five mats for that.”
He plunked his heavy pack down in the center of the road.
Manco strode forward, digging through the merchant’s pack. “I am the ranking member on this trip, so I shall choose first.” He drew out a heavy, black mat elegantly decorated with red and white triangles. “This one.”
He motioned to his two guards, and they came forward next to make their selections. They took all three mats back to secure to their llama.
The porter took all of this as his due. He smiled at the merchant when it came his turn and drew out a pair decorated with long red and orange stripes. He turned to hold them toward me. “I would be honored if you and Otorongo would take the last two.”
I smiled fondly at the porter. “You are far too kind –”
Otorongo grabbed my arm, holding me by his side.
I followed his gaze.
The merchant had a cluster of oblong bumps along his chin. He scratched idly at them.
Otorongo’s voice was hoarse. “You say you are continuing on to Machu Picchu?”
The merchant nodded, reshouldering his pack and moving past us with his group. “Indeed we are. Have a safe trip, and enjoy the mats!”
Manco started in motion again. “Come along, Otorongo. Our path is forward, not back. The trip won’t make itself, and we are on an important mission. One which may determine the fate of the entire Incan Empire, isn’t that right?” He gave a low chuckle.
Otorongo looked to me, his hand gently holding my arm. His eyes swirled with deep emotions – I could barely put a name to them.
He gave one last look to the merchants who plodded quietly on their path up toward Machu Picchu.
His gaze drew forward, to the well-traveled dirt road which led, at its far end, to the capital city of Cuzco.
A chill settled within me. It came to me that both ends of our journey now harbored immense danger. And, if I had read Otorongo’s gaze well, it now lurked in our very midst.
But if we were to flee …
Otorongo’s face steeled in determination.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Manco, your actions with the merchant reminded me of something. It is my fault; a warrior’s lapse from being on the road for far too long.” He held Manco’s gaze. “I realize now that Inti and I have not been showing you proper deference. We should follow a full ten paces behind you. To demonstrate that we w
ill humbly respect you in your wise decisions, whatever they may be.”
Manco’s brow creased with suspicion. “Perhaps you are hoping to act an even greater coward – to escape and avoid the noble sacrifice which awaits you.”
Otorongo shook his head. “We have two week’s journey ahead of us. This is the time for me and Inti to purify ourselves. Many sacrificial children are prepared for months – even years – before their event. But we do not have that time available. These two weeks will have to suffice. We must do our penance with every step.”
Macao’s lips turned down. “But Inti is not intended for sacrifice.”
Otorongo gave a quick glance in my direction, and I could see his mind scrambling for a solution. I spoke into the silence. “It is my love for Otorongo which is being sacrificed,” I murmured. “For when Otorongo is gone, I will have to be free of it so I can love another.”
This thought seemed to please Manco immensely. He grinned, his jade tooth inlays flashing in the light. “That is wise, then. Yes. You two purify yourselves on our trip. And when we reach Cuzco, we will please the gods immensely with what we offer to them.”
Otorongo took my hand as Manco set back in motion, his gaze hollow. We stayed the full ten paces behind the others. Even so, Otorongo spoke at a mere whisper. “Twelve days, at the most, before their infection takes hold. Once it begins, there will be no stopping it.”
I looked with sadness at the innocent porter, now beginning a fresh carving for his wife. “And there is no remedy? No medicine which can help it?”
He shook his head. “I am so sorry, Inti.”
We passed the bleached bones of a puma and I stopped to pick up the leg bone. I drew a knife out of the pouch at my side.
I began carving the façade of Machu Picchu, as I had first seen it emerging from its mists, walking up the long road from Cuzco. A walk I had made with Otorongo by my side.
Otorongo looked down at me with glowing emotion. “Inti, you are an amazing woman. Whatever we face, know that I will always be by your side.”
I shyly smiled at him. “And I yours. For it is your light which lifts me.”
He glanced up, as if something had rustled in the leaves. He reached out to take my hand. “Stay with me,” he murmured.
I nodded. “Always.”
There was a swirling … a strange blurring …
*
I brushed the thin layer of dirt off my new brick-red dress, taking one last glance around the dusty market. Farmers and merchants from all around the Oyo Empire had gathered at Porto Novo, along the Gulf of Guinea, to watch the spectacle. The victorious Yoruba would shortly present their captured enemies and tribute-payments to the Portuguese slave traders. When the festival was done, the Oyo Empire would have even more gold in their ample coffers.
My shoulders slumped, and I looked down at my chocolate-brown hands. I had grown up accepting the slave trade as a way of life. What else would one do with one’s captured enemies? Kill them all? And what of the tribute the Oyo brought in from the many kingdoms they had conquered? Many tribes could not pay in gold or silver. So they paid in the capital they did possess – excess workers.
A white face in a sea of dark came toward me, clothed in a long, white dress. I smiled. It was the missionary, Mary, with her elfin face and ghost-white skin. Mary had arrived ten years ago with her parents and a group of like-minded Christians. Over those years they had converted many Yoruba including my own family.
Mary shook her head, drawing me in to a warm hug. “It is good to see you, Elizabeth, although the circumstances wound my soul. I know many Christians preach the necessity of slavery. Even the Bible has slavery in it.” Her eyes went down to a line of men being marched along the busy docks, manacled in chains. “And yet, I cannot help but feel in my heart that this is wrong. There must be another way for western Africans to pay tributes and to deal with war prisoners. Not this.”
I did still not quite take in this foreigner’s concept of “Africa” – of one, mind-bogglingly huge place of a single people. My own experience was far different. I was a member of the Yorubas – of the all-powerful and unbreakable Oyo Empire. All around us, from the Nupe to the Masina and so many others, there were enemies who would gladly pillage the Yorubas if given the chance. The others were jealous of the large, walled-in palaces and elegant art that my Yoruba people enjoyed.
If Mary was to be believed, all of this conflict was happening on just one small ocean-side bump of a massive land mass. A continent which stretched far, far east to the fabled city of Jerusalem, where Christ had been born.
I shook my head. It was too much to take in.
I smiled at Mary. “I need to get back home. My stepmother needed yams for the soup.” My joy faded. “And then they want to spend the afternoon watching the slave auctions. They enjoy it for some reason. They say it’s good to see their enemies sent far overseas, where they can never threaten us again.”
Another line of manacled men was led through, a Yoruba guard at either end of the chain. Each guard held a long, thick sword with a curved tip. From the gashes on several of the slaves, apparently the guards had felt the need to use their weapons to keep the group in motion.
My gaze went to the slave at the end. He was tall, muscular, and had more wounds than the others. There was a sureness to his step, a fierce shine in his eyes, that made my heart trip against my ribs. And yet, there was something more. Something almost familiar –
He looked out through the crowd, through the tiers of markets and warehouses and twisting roads which spread out from the docks like a spider’s web. His eyes moved, searching … searching …
They met mine.
I gasped
It was as if a lightning bolt had seared out of a broiling sky and delved into my very core.
It was him.
The man from my visions.
15 – Yoruba Destiny
I blinked in shock. The dusty marketplace, the calls from sailors on the docks, the stretch of dense city which lay behind me in tan and rust, all of it faded from view. All I could see was the tall, muscular, nearly naked man manacled to the others in a line. The way his eyes seared into my very soul.
The Yoruba guard beside him snarled at his distraction and whapped him with the flat end of his thick blade. The blow landed on top of an open wound and a shudder of pain ran through Robert’s frame, but he did not turn. He did not drop his focus on me.
Robert.
I had no idea how I knew this man. I had never met him before. He looked to be a warrior from the Masina forces, to the far north, nearly to the fabled stretches of the mighty Sahara desert.
His warriors must have fallen to the onslaught of our Yoruba expansion. He might have been valiantly defending his village when his group was overwhelmed, overrun, and taken as slaves.
His eyes held mine –
A firm yank from the leading Yoruba guard, and Robert was flung hard onto his knees. He was dragged a few feet before he managed to find his feet again. His knees were raw and bleeding now, adding to his wounds, and yet his head was turned toward me as the line marched down, down, to the center square of the docks where the slave auction would take place.
My feet turned to follow –
Mary gently took my arm, her voice tense with worry. “Elizabeth, you shouldn’t go down there alone. It’s not safe. Most of the slavers are legitimate businessmen. They buy and sell their goods at these markets, then load their product up onto ships to bring to their waiting customers. They are mere middle-men and want to make the best profit they can while maintaining their relationship with the slave-holders here at Porto Novo.”
Her eyes shadowed. “But there are others in the area who are not as scrupulous. You are quite pretty, you know. They would not be above kidnapping you and dragging you off onto an awaiting ship. Your life in the hands of men such as these would be … beyond awful.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, shuddering. I had certainly heard the tales enough ti
me from my father, as a warning to stay aware when I ventured into town.
Mary gave me a soft tug. “Come. You said your stepmother is waiting for those yams to make her delicious soup. Let us have some together. Then we can talk some more about these visions you have been having.”
It took all my strength to turn from the docks, from where Robert had vanished in the gnarled stew of boxes, sacks, and chained bodies. But Mary was right. I couldn’t go down there alone. I would have to enlist my father and stepmother to go with me.
Fortunately for me, that was exactly what they had intended to do this very afternoon.
*
Mary sat back in contented delight, finishing off her pounded yam soup. “Oh, Sarah, that was absolutely delicious. You are a marvel.”
My stepmother beamed at the compliment, brushing back the dangling white-shell earrings with a reflexive motion. “It is a favorite of my husband’s,” she murmured. She gathered up the empty bowls and brought them over to a side table.
Mary looked around at the neatly swept dirt courtyard in the center of our white-walled home. The thatched roof had been recently refreshed and shone in the afternoon sun. It was a beautiful home, well kept, and I knew I should be contented with my life.
And yet dark pain swirled through me, at the thought that Robert was a twenty minute walk away, baking under the hot sun at the docks. By the end of the day he would be sold to slavers, packed into the dark hold of a ship, and he would be gone … gone …
My father leaned forward, giving me a gentle nudge. “Elizabeth, your tender heart will get the better of you some day. Would you rather that our soldiers slaughtered every man they faced in battle? Allowed no quarter? Took no prisoners?”
“Of course not,” I countered. “But couldn’t we … I don’t know … make them promise never to fight us again? Just leave them where we found them?”
My stepmother laughed out loud, her coffee face lit with bright mirth. “What, the famed warriors of the Masina? Just ask them to submit to our rule and become farmers? You think they would not rise up and rebel against us the moment they had the chance?”
