Standing, Kolojo turned round, seeing a great cloud rising from the forest. Swirling through the darkening sky, the smoke looked like waterweed swaying in the gentle currents of a pond. The smoke was coming from the Sacred Grove, but somehow he felt no alarm. He knew this was a happening of importance; that losing the Grove would be a sore defeat to his people, but he did nothing all the same.
It did not feel like a wrong thing that was happening, so he did not wake the others as he went to have a closer look. As he walked, the sweet wind filling his mind, Kolojo felt his cousin, and he knew that Rakam was well and would be returning soon. He smiled at the thought, as incongruous as it was, seeing now the high flames, the once proud fence and gateway burning. Coming to where the heat of the flames could be felt upon his face, Kolojo lowered himself into a posture of prayer and began to chant silently, his eyes open, watching the destruction.
* * *
“What in the devil are you doing?” Timbo shouted, rearranging his ceremonial robes and headdress as he hurried to the place where Kolojo kneeled. The MaKasisi and villagers were following close behind Timbo, talking excitedly, carrying vessels of water that had been collected from the village well. Kolojo did not reply to Timbo’s shouts. He just kept staring at the Grove, praying. The crowd murmured quietly, watching and waiting as Timbo decided what to do. “What’s wrong with you? Are you possessed?”
“I pray as for the passing of an honored friend,” Kolojo said at last. He was covered in a fine gray ash; and as he spoke, he could taste the sweetness of it, and his eyes began to tear for the joy of his cousin’s return. If he had ever been one for the seeing of visions, he would have sworn that he could see Rakam right then, somewhere inside the burning grove, sitting peaceably on the rocks perhaps, breathing the same good air that had been breathed by a thousand ancestors before him.
“Don’t just sit there, do something!” Timbo said, pushing Kolojo bodily. “Put out the fire! Use your magic.”
“No!” came an angry reply from the far side of the crowd. Mabetu had spoken, and at his words, it seemed a crack of thunder broke the sky. “That is too great a task even for Kolojo. I tell you it is not the Will of the Almighty for this one to consume himself in flame for the sake of a garden, no matter how important we think it.”
“But the Grove,” Timbo began, but was silenced as Mabetu made his way through the crowd, huffing and puffing and walking stiffly, his staff thrust into the ground before him like bolts of lightning.
“Timbo, you do not understand. If the Grove is to be destroyed, then it is as it must be. For some purpose this has happened. It’s not our place to interfere with anything that happens within its walls.” Mabetu turned to the others. “Go to your village, make sure the fire does not spread to your fields and houses, but let the Grove suffer as it is fated to be.”
The fire burned long. Some of the villagers soaked their huts with water while others dug a trench around the outer fence of the Grove, stamping out all fires that crossed with ferocity. The mood was sullen. All feared what such a tragedy meant. The feast was made, but hardly a word was spoken while they ate. With none of the joy that had marked the earlier celebration, they each found a place to ease their weariness and descend into sleep.
Chapter 10
When he awoke, Kolojo ate a quick meal of salted meat and flatbread from his traveling supplies and hurried back to the Grove. The fire was extinguished. The smoke was gone. Everything inside the grove was destroyed. Only blackened tree trunks and gray ash and the pile of stones at what had once been the clearing remained.
Kolojo knelt and began silently praying and was soon joined by Mabetu, who said nothing but kneeled and began praying himself. One by one, people from the village came, too, as did the MaKasisi, most notably Timbo, wearing clean garments, clinging to his ceremonial duties.
“Who’s that man?” a small voice said suddenly. Everyone looked up and there, seated upon the giant stones of the Grove, was an unkempt man dressed in rags. He had something darkly colored in his arms, and seemed to be petting it gently as he rocked back and forth.
The people gathered themselves quickly and approached him, Timbo saying in a loud voice, “No, I forbid it. None but the MaKasisi purified by the Sacred Well may enter the Sacred Grove.”
The villagers protested and sought advice from Mabetu. Weary, he put up his hands in surrender and said, “No, no, Timbo. The walls are gone. Let them remain that way. If this is truly a sacred place, then it should be for everyone to enter.” Several of the elder MaKasisi agreed. “Come now, everyone, let us visit this stranger and see what he has to say for himself.”
Taking his place at the front of the crowd, Timbo pointed the ceremonial spear of his office and called out, “Greetings and warning, and who is it that disturbs this once sacred place?”
The man stirred. He let the object he was holding fall to the ground.
“Answer me. Are you friend or foe? What is your business here?”
“Prophecy,” the man said, his head bowed, his face obscured by shadow. He seemed to be talking to himself, unconcerned with those gathered before him.
“Though it is the time for the reading of signs, you can plainly see what tragedy has befallen us. The Grove has failed. The stone by which the telling is made has not been found, and it is likely now that it never will be.”
“I have the stone,” the man replied, unmoving. When he finished speaking, his lips once again began mouthing words that could not be heard.
The crowd gasped in disbelief. “What is that?” Timbo said indignantly. “What nonsense do you speak?”
Finishing his prayer, the man lifted his head and said. “I have the stone.”
“Rakam,” Mabetu said with a cry. The people let him by and he hastened to the spot, taking the disheveled man into his arms, weeping. “Oh, thank the Almighty. You have returned.”
“What is this?” Timbo said suspiciously. “You say you are my dear cousin Rakam and claim to have the stone?”
“Yes, I have made a long journey, and there are many things that we all must discuss, the least of which is this stone.” Rakam said, keeping one arm around his great-grandfather as he spoke. He held the stone up in his hand for all to see. It was the size of a fruit, and though covered with ash, its markings could still be seen despite the blacking from the fire.
“Your pardon, dear cousin, but might I ask how long you have been back? I find it coincidental that you stand before us, stone in hand, when none of us here could find it, though long and thorough as our search was.” Murmurings of discontent from some of the MaKasisi rose from the crowd. “And now the Grove has been destroyed by fire.”
“Timbo, your speech is not worthy of you,” Mabetu snapped, stepping away from Rakam as he tried to compose himself.
Standing fully, Rakam said, “I have only just returned, dear cousin, and this duty no longer holds honor for me, only sorrow.” He tossed the stone to Timbo who started, dropping his spear to catch the sacred object. “But I bring dark and important news to you all the same.”
“What prophecy do you speak of?” asked one of the MaKasisi.
“I do not speak of prophecy,” Rakam said, laughing bitterly. “No, my gift of prophecy has left me. The story I have to tell is what I’ve seen with my own eyes. The MaShaitani have returned. They bring with them death and destruction the like of which not even the most frightening of our stories tell. Against such powers I have witnessed perhaps we will find no strength to defend ourselves.”
The murmurings of the crowd grew to a dull roar. “Quiet! Quiet now,” Mabetu said. “Rakam, you must tell us everything, if, indeed, we should not fly from this place at this very moment.”
“No, they are yet far behind me, I think, but not so far that any here should remain long.”
“But where can we go?” people of the village asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe nowhere is safe. The Shaitani army was at the fishing village over the lake when I escaped them, and
they could not have traveled as quickly as I myself have done. They had prisoners, and many possessions.”
“Then we should go to the lands of the Marsh King,” Mabetu said. “For if anywhere our people can gather in strength, it is there.”
“I don’t know,” Rakam said miserably. “They have the ability to enchant even our own people and force us to do their bidding. Perhaps the whisperings of their sorcery have already begun in this place, and if we go to the Marsh King, it will be to our folly and under their direction.”
One of the elder MaKasisi that had spoken earlier said, “Wait, wait now. Maybe I have grown old and my mind has clouded, but I just don’t understand. You speak in riddles, and we learn no more of these dangers by your words. We had better hear all that you have to say, from the beginning.”
“Yes, just so,” others agreed.
Rakam blushed, saying, “My apologies, I’ve spoken to none but this river dog here for half the Given Day, so far away.”
“You have as much time as you need. Do not hurry yourself and let none other hurry you, or so says this old man.”
Mabetu laughed, “Wise council, I’m sure.”
“I traveled from the Village of the Purple Fern, a place over the mountains and across the great plain,” Rakam began, remembering the words though not the art he had once used in speaking, “and into the heathen realms of the Losli. I found all the lands empty. There was a village; I found it in the mountains. It was utterly ruined. The huts, granaries, fields, the village circle, even their holy places and the histories of their ancestors were utterly erased.”
Timbo scoffed, “Such is the fate of infidels.”
“But is it to be our fate, as well?” Kolojo said quickly, though not loud enough for all to hear. Timbo glared at him, but said nothing in return.
Continuing, Rakam said, “Though heathens, they were said by their neighbors to be a good, peaceable folk, diligent in the working of their fields and the tending of their stocks. And at the far Village of the Lake, the same has occurred.”
“Did you see a Losli?” a boy from the village asked, giggling, referring to the beasts of burden and not the people.
At last Rakam relaxed, smiling, feeling good about being back among his own folk. He scrubbed the top of the boy’s dark head, saying, “Yes, I was carried by the Losli. They saved my life, but I will come to that part of the story in a moment.” Happy and satisfied, the boy went silent.
“And, so finding none of the Losli people remained, I decided to return home. I struck out across the waste, but was stung by a serpent. I wandered in a daze from its poisons, until at last I collapsed. It was then that the Jinn spoke to me.”
“A Jinn?” Timbo said in horrified disgust. “Even the heathen devils have nothing to do with them. This is your fault. You have brought this curse down upon us, visiting heathens and treating them as friends, cavorting with evil spirits.”
“Yes, and the Jinn did tempt me. The Jinn said it would save our peoples if only we pledged ourselves to its worship. When I refused, it begged only that I pray for its forgiveness for the rebellion it made against the Almighty. But the tales of our fathers say that all that is done by the Jinn and its kind is tainted, and I judged it better to be enslaved and murdered by MaShaitani here in this world, than forever damned in the next.”
“Well said and well done,” said the elder Kasisi proudly, stamping his staff heartily on the ground. “I visited the Village of the Purple Fern myself, once, long ago, though no Jinn courted me.”
“And Mabetu himself went to the Shaitani mountains and came back with a cure for the sleeping sickness,” the boy added eagerly.
Nodding, continuing with his story, Rakam said, “Just as I began to fade into death, the Losli came, picked me up and put me on their backs, taking me all the way to the great river of the plains. There I recovered with the aid of my little friend Betu, and made my way to the sea. After that I went up the coast to the Village of the Lake People.”
Mabetu said, “And the Lake People had fallen victim, as well?”
“Yes, and I found no other villages in all my travels, if not empty places that seemed fair and good to live in. The village over the lake had only just been conquered, its best warriors murdered or in bondage, its huts and fields destroyed.”
“How many of them do you think there are?”
“One hundred at the least, but I think they must have some ability to see into the minds of men, to make our own people into slaves, to turn our own people against us.”
“How do you know that?” Timbo scoffed.
“But this is the most frightening and disturbing of all, even the secret places of the villages had been spied out. The cave of the ancestors of the Lake People was utterly destroyed, broken in, everything erased.”
“So?”
“Well, finding all of the safe places that a village as old as the Lake Village could only be done with the help of someone who lived there.”
“No, they could have been followed, a force kept in reserve for the capture of those that flee. It’s not unheard of.”
Rakam said pleadingly, “But if only you had seen it, Timbo.”
“Yes, I’m sure, and even if there were one hundred of these white devils, they may have easily destroyed each small village alone, but with the people of the Grove and the Marsh King and, I expect, the mighty MaKasisi of the Falling Lakes, then we will be more than a match for them, even if they are twice again the number you witnessed.”
“But look at this,” Rakam said, taking the helmet from where it was hid and holding it aloft. The people gasped in horror. “All of their warriors are clad in this armored shell from head to foot and no spear or arrow can pierce it. Believe me, I tried. Even with a heavy rock it is not damaged.”
“Then how did you get such a thing?”
Abashed, Rakam said, “I struck one dead with my spear, at the throat where the shell for the head meets the shell for the chest.”
“Then you have discovered the flaw of this armor of theirs. And if you, my dear cousin, can defeat one so poorly armed as a single traveling man, then how should the might of our army fare against them? I say we shall do the same as you did when the time comes, and we will give them a fight they did not expect.”
“I was lucky.”
“You are a warrior of the river people. You are a Kasisi of strength.”
“But they have some special talent in a rod that cracks like thunder and spits a deathly fire.”
“And do we not also have talent in thunder and fire?” Timbo replied, extending a hand deferentially toward Kolojo.
“Yes, but no, you’re not listening,” Rakam pleaded.
“I’m certain the MaShaitani are frightful to behold, most terrible indeed, but with the spirit of our people and the blessing of the Almighty, we will destroy them as we did in our grandfather’s time.”
A cheer rose from the crowd. Louder, Timbo went on, “Yes, we are in danger and we must go, go with best speed, but we will also fight. We will meet thunder and fire with thunder and fire, and we shall be victorious. Thunder and fire for victory!”
And, the crowd took up the chant, “Thunder and fire for victory! Thunder and fire for victory!” Timbo raised his ceremonial spear in one hand and the stone from the Sacred Grove in the other, and he led the cheering crowd back to the village.
Chapter 11
The man walked with an uneven stride, as though he were wounded or carrying some great burden. The village had swelled in number beyond easy reckoning. Even in this place of great honor and sacrifice, there were strangers, people that would do harm to others if given the opportunity and the proper incentive.
Though he gave little credence to the warnings Rakam made about the return of the MaShaitani, Timbo had remained vigilant nonetheless. While the others slept, the few guards paying more attention to some game of chance than to their duties, he watched and waited. The others, the people of his village, the traveling MaKasisi, the pilgrim
s, they were all taking their ease. Most of them were sleeping. Timbo was their sworn protector during this time of trouble, and it seemed the responsibility would be his alone.
So the Keeper of the Grove walked the borders of the village, going from tree to tree like some ardent hound, smelling the wind and reaching out with his mind, looking for any sign of the enemy. And so it proved that his suspicions were well-reasoned after all. A spy had come into their midst.
As the limping man made his way around the sleeping multitude, Timbo followed. He couldn’t make out what the man looked like because his eyesight was failing as he grew into his later years and because the man had covered himself with a blanket. The wind was blowing softly, carrying ash from the Sacred Grove, giving the air the sweet smell of the Tamke, making the man seem a phantom as he hobbled along.
The man led Timbo down by the village tree and across the circle of white stones. With hardly a look back to see if he were being followed, the limping man went right to the Sacred Well. Timbo looked on in horror and outrage. He could not imagine that anyone would have the audacity to defile the Well, to break the Seals of the Almighty the Keeper had only recently set.
Since Rakam had returned and made his predictions, though unorthodox and highly dubious at best, from the stone, the ceremony had come to an end. The thick timbers that lay as protection over the Well had been replaced, and the Sacred Seal had been secured. The clay tablet was even at that moment not fully dry.
Before Timbo could think how to react, the limping man pulled the rope from the clay, breaking the seal, and as Timbo stood dumbfounded, the Well was opened. Coming to his senses by the force of his rage, the Keeper of the Sacred Grove strode down to the spot, his white robes trailing as phantom wings behind him. Pulling the ceremonial knife of his office from its sheath, he grabbed the man roughly by the arm and demanded, “Who dares to defile the Sacred Well?”
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