Blood & Ink

by Stephen Davies

  The sun’s bright rays slant low into the tomb, and still our axes plough the salt saint’s grave. We shatter femurs, shoulder blades and ribs and then – at last, a real horror – my pickaxe meets a bone less brittle than the rest.

  I hear a nauseating crack and a wheeze of pain, and shielding my eyes from the setting sun, I see a turbaned man writhing on the ground, clutching his leg.

  I swear, I didn’t see him. I didn’t mean to hit him. Where in God’s name did he come from, this loon in starched white robes?

  Redbeard comes over and loosens the man’s turban to help him breathe.

  ‘Astaghfirullah,’ I gasp.

  It’s Kadija’s father.

  Yusuf has no credit on his phone, and I have enough for just one text.

  Come to the vault, Mama. We’re locked in.

  I wait in the darkness beside the door. My cousin stays down in the vault. ‘It would be improper,’ he says, ‘for us to be together in the dark.’

  I can guess the real reason, though. He’s in shock and wants to cry.

  Mama arrives at last and we shout at each other through the heavy door. She asks questions and I tell half-truths. ‘I went to the vault to look for that ancient maffay recipe of yours, Mama. A Defender was spying on me from the roof. He followed me, Mama.’

  ‘Purity of God!’ cries Mama. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No, Mama. Yusuf turned up just in time.’

  I don’t tell her about the kiss. She wouldn’t understand.

  How could she? Even I don’t understand.

  ‘I’ll get your father and Uncle Abdel,’ says Mama. ‘There was some commotion at the Cemetery of the Three, and they went to take a look.’

  She hurries off, leaving me in the narrow hallway at the top of the steps. A single beam of light shines through the keyhole, alive with specks of dancing dust.

  ‘Yusuf!’ I shout. ‘Come here.’

  He hurries up the steps.

  ‘Why did you come here, Yusuf?’

  ‘You just told me to.’

  ‘No, earlier I mean, when you found us in the vault together.’

  ‘I heard you scream,’ he says uncertainly.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Did he—’ Yusuf hesitates. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No, thanks to you. But he certainly hurt The Virtues of Scholarship.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ says Yusuf. ‘For someone who preaches that football is forbidden, he has an excellent half-volley.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I reach for his hand. Our fingers intertwine.

  ‘I should go back down to the vault,’ says Yusuf thickly.

  ‘Wait.’

  Still holding his hand, I step towards him and twist his arm up behind his back.

  ‘Ouch!’ he cries. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘How do you know he kicked it, Yusuf?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He gives a short light laugh. Too short, and much too light.

  ‘How do you know that he kicked the manuscript?’ I am speaking slowly, as if to an imbecile. ‘I never told you he kicked it.’

  ‘I saw him. Hey! I saw him!’

  I push his hand further up his back until I feel the strain on all three of the joints in his arm. ‘You said you came because you heard me scream, Yusuf. But I only screamed because he kicked the manuscript. You can’t have seen him kick the manuscript, Yusuf. It’s impossible.’

  ‘I remember,’ he gasps. ‘I saw part of a footprint on one of the manuscript fragments.’

  ‘You must think I’m an idiot,’ I snarl and yank his hand right up between his shoulder blades.

  ‘Please, Kadi! That really hurts!’ He is standing on tiptoes, trying to ease the pain.

  ‘There are a lot of broken bones in the Kabara Road Hospital at the moment,’ I say. ‘I hear they are running out of supplies to treat them all.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you,’ Yusuf whimpers. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’ I ease the pressure on his arm, and my cousin sighs like a deflating tyre. ‘I like you, Kadi, though only God knows why. And I’ve been—’ he hesitates. ‘I’ve been watching you. There is something you don’t know about this vault. Something no one knows but me.’

  Twelve tombs in ten hours. Our bodies are tired but our spirits are still eager to do the will of God. Is there a cemetery we have not yet visited, a saint whose bones lie undisturbed?

  There are no more shrines to smash, but there is, of course, one idol left.

  ‘Come, Ali Konana, let’s finish this thing,’ says Redbeard, throwing me an AK-47 magazine belt. ‘We’ll go to the Sidi Yahya Mosque, just you and me. We have an ancient mystery to solve.’

  Just you and me. What an honour. I feel like the Ali of old, protecting his lord at the battle of Uhud. I strap the belt round my waist and fit a magazine in every pouch. There’s anger in Timbuktu tonight; we need to go prepared.

  On the way to the mosque I keep thinking about Kadija’s father. They loaded him onto the back of a donkey cart like an injured cow, and off he went to the Kabara Road Hospital, and he was looking at me as he went. Not saying anything, just looking.

  What kind of demons possess a man to jump in front of a swinging axe? It’s not normal. He has only his demons to blame.

  By the time we arrive at the mosque it is gone ten o’clock and the night prayer crowd has already dispersed. In the inner courtyard six Qur’anic students are writing and reciting by a fire. Imam Cissé sits on a mat nearby, shrouded in a thick blanket. He looks up when we arrive and points a spindly finger at Redbeard.

  ‘The crimes you have committed today,’ croaks the imam, ‘will be visited on you a thousandfold in the hereafter.’

  Redbeard ignores the threat and wanders to the ancient wooden door on the east side of the compound. Its silver suns, moons and stars sparkle in the light of the fire. ‘Tell me about this door,’ he says.

  Imam Cissé shrugs off his blanket and leans on his walking stick to help him stand. ‘Stay away from that door. Do you hear me, Ould Hamaha? If you so much as touch that door, I will kill you myself.’

  ‘You, boy.’ Redbeard points at one of the imam’s students. ‘Tell me about the door.’

  The teenager hesitates, then gabbles his answer all in one breath. ‘It’s a very special door,’ he says. ‘It will not open until the end of the world when the Prophet Musa calls the Prophet Isa to come and judge the world and those whose works were pleasing to God will go through that door and enter into their rest because it is the Door of Heaven.’

  Redbeard spits in the sand. ‘Are you telling me,’ he says, ‘that heaven is on the other side of this door?’

  ‘Yes,’ squeaks the student.

  ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ says Redbeard. ‘After you, Ali.’

  ‘No!’ cries Imam Cissé.

  I raise my pickaxe above my head and bring it down hard on the Door. The axe head glances off an ornate silver sun. I swing again. This time it hits a moon, rebounds and strikes me on the shoulder.

  ‘Alhamdulillah!’ cries Imam Cissé. ‘You see, it can’t be done!’

  He’s wrong. It can be done. The rivets of these ancient doors were designed to resist attack, but everything has a weakness.

  For my third strike I pick my spot more carefully, aiming at the seam between two central panels. The pickaxe lands, the wood splits open and the head of my axe lodges so deeply in the door that I cannot pull it out. Redbeard throws me his axe and I land another blow, and then another. The panels start to fall apart and shed their silver rivets.

  It is the beginning of the End. Moons and stars tumble through space and drop like silver petals on the sand.

  ‘Purity of God!’ cries Imam Cissé. ‘Stop, I beg you!’

  I carry on till all eleven panels of the so-called Door of Heaven lie smashed and splintered on the ground.

  Redbeard shines his torch into the darkness beyond. Heaven is a windowless mud-brick room, completely empty but for dust, cobwebs, and a small
black scorpion.

  The scorpion scuttles out, its tail arched, and heads heroically for Redbeard’s foot.

  Redbeard bends, grasps the scorpion by its sting and scowls at it. ‘I was expecting the Prophet Isa, not you,’ he whispers to the flailing arachnid. ‘I must say, I am disappointed.’

  He snaps off the sting, drops the scorpion on the ground, lets it skitter a little way, then stamps on it.

  Imam Cissé is staring at the broken door. He clasps the head of his walking stick so tight his knuckles whiten. ‘Curse you, curse you both,’ he says, in a peculiar reedy voice. ‘May God command the desert djinn to smite you from the earth and wing you to the place where you belong.’

  On a nail next to the Door of Heaven hangs a goatskin water pouch. Redbeard unhooks the pouch and offers it to the old man.

  ‘Come, father, you should follow the example of Imam Karim. Seek refuge from your anger. Lie down, make yourself comfortable on the sand, and allow me to pour some water over you.’

  The imam does not lie down. He strides towards Redbeard holding his walking stick in both hands, and then, with a sudden twist of the wrists, the walking stick comes apart.

  I gasp out loud. The shaft of the imam’s stick is a hollow wooden sheath, and its sculpted handle the hilt of a sword – a sword which even now is swinging through the air towards the mujahid.

  Redbeard lifts the goatskin pouch to defend himself. Scant defence. The imam’s sword slices cleanly through the leather, and the water bursts out, drenching my master’s hair and henna beard.

  Cissé plants his feet and lifts the silver sword again. This is no time to stand and stare. I have to act. Like Ali of old, I must protect my lord.

  I drop to one knee, grab a handful of sand, and fling it in the imam’s angry eyes.

  The old man blinks and staggers, and my master takes his chance to move in for the kill.

  No, not for the kill. He has more class than that. As Imam Cissé blindly swings his sword, the mujahid leaps to one side and delivers a lightning knuckle punch to the outside of the imam’s sword arm, just below his elbow.

  The sword falls to the ground, the imam to his knees.

  The Qur’anic students are on their feet. They’re picking up firebrands and bits of broken door, but by the time they get within five metres of us, our guns are levelled at their chests.

  ‘Come on, boys!’ bawls Redbeard. ‘Which one of you is first?’

  None of them, it seems. They drop their weapons and back away, their hands above their heads.

  ‘I can’t move my fingers,’ Imam Cissé whines. ‘What have you done to me, Ould Hamaha?’

  ‘I struck your radial nerve. Don’t worry, old man, the paralysis is only temporary.’

  ‘You there!’ I point to one of the Qur’anic students. ‘Go and find some water to wash the sand out of your teacher’s eyes.’

  Redbeard sheathes the imam’s silver sword and holds it up to look at it. ‘Exquisite,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘The seam is completely invisible. I’ll buy it.’

  ‘It’s not for sale,’ the imam snaps.

  Redbeard counts out a wad of purple notes. ‘Here’s fifty thousand to repair your door, and thirty thousand for your walking stick.’

  ‘Keep your cursed money.’

  My master slides the rolled-up notes into the imam’s hand, then turns and walks away. ‘Too bad,’ he calls back. ‘A man who cannot move his fingers must accept what he is given!’

  My master and I swagger side by side through Independence Square, taking turns with the imam’s silver sword. We’re drunk with holy victory and desperate for more.

  The shrines are smashed. The Door is down. I imagined that would be enough.

  It’s not, of course.

  How could it be enough, when those repulsive manuscripts remain? They are lying there right now, intact and gloating in their vault with Kadi and her stupid cousin. The manuscripts are the curse of Timbuktu, an insult to the memory of the martyrs. Soft books, every one of them, infecting Sufi heads with fairy tales and stirring sick hearts with desire.

  I managed to destroy one manuscript this afternoon. Twelve thousand more remain.

  ‘Ali Konana, you did well back there,’ says Redbeard. ‘The way you improvised and threw that sand. It was masterly.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ I mumble.

  ‘Nonsense!’ he cries, lunging at thin air with the imam’s sword. ‘Your quick thinking saved my life! As of this moment, you’re my favourite son.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mumble.

  ‘God gave us victory today,’ Redbeard declares, ‘and tonight the city of Timbuktu is free of superstition.’

  ‘No, master, it’s not,’ I hear myself say.

  It is the first time ever that I have contradicted Redbeard. A soldier never contradicts, but a favourite son is different.

  ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘I’m listening.’

  The front door to Kadi’s compound is bolted from the inside, as if that can keep us out. We shin up the tree and hop onto the roof.

  The roof and the compound below are dark and silent.

  We drop down into the courtyard and hop over the fence into the horse’s pen. The father’s stallion is standing by the wall. It gazes as we pass.

  There behind the hay bales is the door. I had expected the lock to be smashed, but there is no sign of damage. None at all.

  I borrow Redbeard’s torch and shine it on the sand. Going to and from the door are Mama Diallo’s sharp-toed footprints. And here are the tracks of Kadi and her cousin, leading to the door, but not away.

  Strange. I breathe. They’re still inside.

  I take the key from my pocket and turn it in the lock.

  As soon as I open the door, I smell smoke.

  ‘Salaam alaikum,’ I call. No answer.

  Pulse pounding in my ears, I step across the threshold and shine the torch down the steps. I cannot see the whole vault, only the narrow section at the foot of the steps. But what I see there makes my stomach churn.

  A pile of ash lies by the wall – grey ash and blackened stumps. Towards the outer edge of the ash lie the charred remains of two red shoes and an indigo veil.

  ‘Purity of God!’ I cry, running down the steps towards the bodies.

  Too late I notice a pair of silver rivets pressed into the wall on either side of the staircase. Too late I notice a kora string stretched low between them. My leading foot snags on the tripwire and I tumble down the steps, cracking my head on the floor of the vault.

  In a burst of colour on my eyelids I see the ruins of La Détente, the dancing flames and broken instruments. I see black-lipped, furious faces. And lying on the sand, a kora string and two stray rivets. Keep these as a souvenir, I mouth. God does not want your music. He wants your heart.

  ‘Are you all right?’ shouts Redbeard.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I lift myself up on one elbow and wince in pain. Damn you, Kadi.

  Redbeard picks up his torch and shines it on the ash. ‘Those aren’t bones,’ he says. ‘They’re table legs. Why have they burned the furniture?’

  ‘I don’t know, master.’

  He shines his torch across the walls and ceiling. I don’t believe it. The vault is void. Even the bookcase stands empty.

  ‘Where are the trunks, Ali?’

  I slump back to the floor. ‘I’m sorry, master. I don’t know.’

  The Kabara Road Hospital is still full of women. Even the men’s wards are full of women. They have put Baba on a mat on the floor of a cleaning cupboard, surrounded by brooms and packets of Omo powder.

  Baba and Mama are reciting dhikr, but they stop when they hear me come in.

  ‘Foofo, Kadija,’ says Baba weakly.

  The cleaning cupboard is surprisingly dirty. There are cobwebs on the ceiling, patches of bare plaster on the walls, and disgusting stains on the floor. It smells of bleach and decay.

  ‘How is the patient?’ I say, squatting down in a thicket of bro
oms and shining a torch at the broken leg. The bones have been realigned, dressed in a yellowing bandage and strapped to a crude splint.

  ‘The hospital has run out of plaster,’ says Mama, lighting a paraffin lamp. ‘And pain killers.’

  ‘Dhikr is my pain killer,’ says Baba with a tight smile. ‘But the healing will take time, they say. I could be here for weeks.’

  I exchange a look with Mama.

  ‘Have you told him yet?’ I whisper.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Told me what?’ my father says.

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ I say. ‘There was a Defender in the vault this afternoon.’

  ‘No!’ My father tries to sit up, then slumps back down in pain. ‘How? What happened?’

  I repeat the same story I told Mama. The ancient maffay recipe. The Defender on the roof. The confrontation.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ asks Baba.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does he know what’s in the trunks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the manuscripts are in danger!’ Baba cranes his neck towards me, his eyes straining out of his head. ‘We must contact Abdel. We must call the horsemen of the sun. We must move the trunks again!’

  ‘I’ve done it, Baba. They are out of the vault, but it’s not enough. We need to get them out of Timbuktu.’

  ‘That decision is not yours to make!’ snaps Baba. The pain and stress are getting to him. ‘It’s mine!’

  I look at Mama, and she gives another tiny nod. It’s time.

  ‘Baba,’ I say. ‘I want to take the Oath.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Come on, Baba, we have no choice.’

  ‘She’s right.’ says Mama. ‘There is nothing you and I can do, stuck in this cursed cupboard. Kadija loves those manuscripts, and she is clever, too. She will make an excellent Guardian.’

  ‘In the name of God, the Compassionate and Merciful,’ I begin.

  ‘Kadi, no.’

  ‘I solemnly swear to guard the manuscripts of Timbuktu entrusted to my family by the saints of old.’

  ‘Kadi, you are only fifteen. It’s far too young.’

  ‘I will protect them in times of peace and in times of war, in times of planting and in times of harvesting, in times of joy and in times of sorrow. I will protect them from fire and from flood, from wizards and from thieves, from giants and from djinn.’