by Marlon James
“If they had a choice. Fumanguru’s family might have been dumped somewhere, appalling the gods. Maybe burned?”
“Not the Kongori,” he said. “They believe burning a body frees into air what killed him.”
“How do you know?”
“I killed a few. This was how it went. I—”
“Not now, Sadogo.”
We went to the next room, which, judging by the Mojave wood bed, must have been Fumanguru’s. His wall was all scenes—hunting, mostly—carved into the wood. Shattered statues and books on the floor, and loose paper as well, probably torn out of the books. Omoluzu would not have cared, but the third, fourth, and fifth person to visit this room would have, including Sogolon, whom I smelled since we stepped into the master room, but I did not tell the Ogo. I wondered if, unlike the others who had been here, she found what she was looking for.
“Word was that Basu Fumanguru wrote many writs against the King. Twenty or thirty articles in total, some with testimony to his wrongdoing from subjects, and nobles, and princes he wronged. There was a man who I had words with. He said that people searched for the writs, and that is why he was killed. But what little I know of Fumanguru tells me he is no fool. Also surely he would wish his words to not die with him,” I said.
“These writs are not here?”
“No. Not only that, good Ogo, but I don’t think that is what people were looking for. Remember the boy? Bunshi said she saved him.”
A sword glimmered on the floor. I hated swords now. Too bulky, too much force against wind when it should be working with her, but I took it up anyway. It was halfway in its sheath. I would need to come back under sunlight, for I had nothing now to guide me but my nose. A man was all over this room, Fumanguru perhaps, and a woman too, but their smells ended in this room, meaning they were dead. Outside, I turned to the room beside another dwelling for servants and the youngest children. I could tell that whoever buried the family either did not see or did not care that a servant was under the broken wood and torn rugs. All that was left lying there was her bones, still together, but flesh all eaten away. I stepped in and the Ogo followed me. His head scraped the ceiling. I grinned, tripped over an overturned urn, and fell hard. Fuck the gods, I said, even though a pile of cloths broke my fall. Robes. Even in the dark I could tell their luxury. Gold trim, but thin fabric, so the wife’s. This must be where the servant kept clothes dried after a wash. But there was fragrance in the thin robe that no wash could wash out. Frankincense. It took me out of this room and back into the master’s room and then out into the middle of the courtyard and back into the large room beside the grain keep.
“They’re in there, Sadogo.”
“Under earth?”
“No. In urns.”
With no windows, this room was the darkest, but thank the gods for the strength of the Ogo. He pulled the lid off the largest, which I assumed was Basu, but the frankincense still there told me it was the wife.
“Sadogo, your torch.”
He stood up and fetched it. In the urn, there she was, body curled wrong, with her back touching the soles of her feet. Her skull rested in her hair, her bones peeking out of the fabric.
“They broke her back?” Sadogo said.
“No, they cut her in two.”
The second urn, smaller but bigger than the others, housed Fumanguru. All his bones collected but broken apart. Deep blue robes like a king’s. Whoever buried them stole nothing, for surely they would have taken so luxurious a robe, even off a man diseased. His face bones were smashed, which happened when Omoluzu ripped off a face to wear it. Another large urn housed two children, a small urn housed one. The small child’s bones in the small urn now almost powder, except for his arms and ribs. Like the others, he smelled of long-passed death and fading fragrance. Nothing to preserve or mummify the bodies, which meant the story of infection had spread. I nodded at Sadogo to cover the last urn when just a little thing winked at me.
“The torch again, Sadogo.”
I looked up, just as the Ogo wiped a tear from his cheek. He was thinking of killed children, but not this one.
“What is that he’s holding?” I asked.
“Parchment? A piece of clay?”
I grabbed it. Cloth, simple as aso oke fabric, but not. I pulled at it, but the boy would not let go. He died with this, his last show of defiance, the poor, brave child. I halted the thought before it went further. One more pull and it was free. A piece of blue cloth torn from something bigger. The boy was wrapped in white. I put the cloth to my nose and one year of sun, night, thunder, and rain, hundreds of days of walks, dozens of hills, valleys, sands, seas, houses, cities, plains. Smell so strong it became sigh, and hearing and touch. I could reach out and touch the boy, grab him in my mind and reel from him being so far away. Too far away, my head rushing and jumping and sinking below sea then flying higher and higher and higher and smelling air free of smoke. Smell pushing me, pulling me, dragging me through jungles, tunnels, birds, ripped flesh, flesh-eater insects, shit, piss, and blood. Blood rushed into me. So much blood my eyes went red, then black.
So gone I thought you would never return,” Sadogo said.
I rolled on my side and sat up.
“How long?”
“Not long but deep like in sleep. Your eye was milk white. I thought demons were in your head, but no froth came to your mouth.”
“It happens only when I am not expecting it. I smell something and someone’s life comes to me all in a rush. It is a madness, even now when I have learned to master it. But, Ogo, there is something.”
“Another dead body?”
“No, the boy.”
He looked in the urn.
“No, the boy we seek. He is alive. And I know where he is.”
THIRTEEN
Truly, it was foolish to say I found the boy. I found that he was far away. The Ogo, on hearing my news, grabbed his torch and dashed off to his left, then right, then went into the children’s dwelling, and yanked up so many rugs that a cloud of dust rose up and made itself known, even in the dark.
“The boy is nearly three moons away,” I said.
“What does that mean?” he said. He was still lifting rugs and waving his torch.
“About as far as the East from the West.”
He threw down the rugs and the gust blew out the torch.
“Well at least coming all this way served a purpose,” he said.
“I wonder what purpose it served Sogolon,” I mumbled.
“What?”
I forgot that Ogos had sharp ears. She was here before and not that long ago, perhaps even last night. Back in Fumanguru’s room, among the fallen books and ripped papers, her smell came on most strong. I made one step into the room and stopped. The smell came to me at once, and from every side. Shea butter mixed with charcoal, used on the face and skin to become one with the dark.
“We go out, Sadogo.”
He turned to head to the back wall.
“No, through the front door. It’s already open.”
We cut through the bush and walked right into a group of armed men. Sadogo pulled back, surprised, but I was not. They wore skin dye to blend with night black. I heard the crunch and scrape of the Ogo squeezing his iron knuckles. Ten and five of them standing in a half-moon, lake-blue turbans on their heads, lake-blue veils covering all but eye and nose. A sash the same blue across chest and back, black tunic and breeches underneath. And with spear, bow, spear, bow, spear, bow, and on and on, till the last one, carrying a sword on his left, sheathed, like mine. I held on to my sword but did not pull it out. Sadogo stepped once and knocked an archer out of his way, sending him and the arrow flying. The men turned to him in a blink, pulling back bows and ready to hurl spears. The man with the sword was not dressed as they. He wore a red cape over his right shoulder and under his left, flapping in the wind and slapping the ground. A tunic with the chest open that stopped right above his thighs and tied at the waist with a leather belt that held his swo
rd. He waved them down, but watched me the whole time. Sadogo stood in position, waiting for a fight.
“You look certain we’re not going to kill you,” the swordsman said.
“Mine is not the death I worry about,” I said.
The swordsman glared at us. “I am Mossi, third prefect of the Kongori chieftain army.”
“We took nothing,” I said.
“Such a sword could not be yours. Not when I saw it three nights before.”
“You waiting for anyone, or just us?”
“Leave questions to me and answers to yourself.”
He came in closer until he was right in front of me. He was tall but shorter than me, his eyes almost reached mine, and his face was hidden in black dye. Gourd helmet with an iron stitch running in the middle, though the sun was gone and it was cool. A thin silver necklace, lost in chest bush. Head shaped sharp like an arrowpoint, nose hawk-like, thick lips that curved up as if he was smiling, and eyes so clear I could see them in the dark. Rings in both ears.
“Tell me when you see something that pleases you,” he said.
“That sword is not Kongori,” I said.
“No. It belonged to a slaver from the land of the eastern light. Caught him kidnapping free women to sell as slaves. Wouldn’t part with it without parting with his hand, so …”
“You are the second sword thief I have met.”
“Steal from a thief and the gods smile. What is your name?”
“Tracker.”
“Not your mother’s favorite, then.”
He was close enough for me to feel his breath.
“There’s a devil living in your eye,” he said.
He reached for it with his finger and I flinched.
“Or did he punch you one night?” He pointed at Sadogo.
“Not a devil. A wolf,” I said.
“So when the moon bares herself do you howl at it?”
I said nothing, but watched his men. He pointed at Sadogo, who still tensed his arms, waiting to strike.
“Is he an Ogo?”
“Try to kill him and find out.”
“Nevertheless, this conversation continues at the fort. That way.” He pointed east.
“Is that the fort no prisoner leaves? What if we choose not to go?”
“Then this talk between us, sweet and easy, becomes difficult.”
“We’ll kill at least seven of your men.”
“And my men are very generous with their spears. I can lose seven. Can you lose one? This is not an arrest. I prefer talk where streets don’t listen. Do we understand each other?”
The fort was in the Nimbe quarter near the east bank of the river, with a view of the imperial docks. We went down steps into a room made out of stone and mortar. Two chairs and a table. Candles on the table, which surprised me—candles were not cheap anywhere. I was sitting long enough for a cramp to shock my left leg. I stood up when the Prefect came in. He had washed his face. Black hair that when long would be loose and curly, but thin like the hair of a horse. Hair I have not seen since I was lost in the sand sea. And skin light as dried clay. Men who followed the eastern light looked like this, or men who bought slaves, gold, and civet, but slaves the most. His eyes made sense to me now, and his lips, which looked thicker now but still thinner than anybody else’s in these lands. I could already think of how Ku women and Gangatom women would be horrified at a man looking like this. They would have tied him down and baked him until his skin was the right dark. Legs like the Leopard’s, thick with muscle, as if he fought in a war. Kongori sun made his legs darker. I could tell when he pulled his tunic up higher, past where they were before, high enough to show how light the rest of his legs were and how black his loincloth. He pulled the fabric out of his belt and it fell this time below his knee.
“Expecting a jinn to seat you?” He sat on the table.
“Did a pigeon tell you I was coming?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you—”
“I am the one to ask the questions.”
“So I am the one to be charged with robbery.”
“That mouth again, ’tis like a loose bowel. I can plug it.”
I glared at him quiet. He smiled.
“Brilliant answer,” he said.
“I said nothing.”
“Your best answer yet. But no. No robbery, since you would be the thief’s fool. But murder is untaken.”
“Kongori jokes. Still the worst in the empire.”
“As I’m not Kongori you should be of more laughter. As for these murders.”
“You cannot kill the dead.”
“Your friend the Ogo already confessed to killing twenty in just as many lands, and shows no sign he will stop.”
I sighed loud. “He was an executioner. He knows not what he speaks,” I said.
“He certainly knows much about killing.”
He looked older than he did in the dark. Or maybe bigger. I really wanted to see his sword.
“Why did you come to Fumanguru’s house tonight?” I asked.
“Perhaps I am heedless. People with blood on their hands tend to wash it where they shed it.”
“That is the most foolish thing I have ever heard.”
“You cast a foolish hand, moving in masquerade and climbing over thornbush yet expecting none to take note.”
“I track lost people.”
“We found them all.”
“You did not find one.”
“Fumanguru had one wife and six boys. They are all accounted for. I counted them. Then we sent for an elder who has since moved to Malakal. Belekun was his name. He confirmed all eight were blood.”
“How soon after did he move?” I asked.
“One, two moons.”
“Did he find the writ?”
“The what?”
“Something he was looking for.”
“How do you know the elder was looking for anything?”
“You are not the only one with big, fat friends, prefect.”
“Do you itch, Tracker?”
“What?”
“Itch. You scratched your chest seven times now. I would guess you are those river types who shun clothes. Luala Luala, or Gangatom?”
“Ku.”
“Even worse. Yet you say writ as if you know what it is. You might have even been looking for it.”
He sat back down on the stool, looked at me, and laughed. I could not remember anyone, man, woman, beast, or spirit who irritated me so. Not even Leopard’s boy.
“Basu Fumanguru. How many enemies had he in this city?” I asked.
“You forget I am the one to ask questions.”
“Not any wise ones. I think you should jump to that time of the night when you torture me for the answers you want.”
“Sit down. Now.”
“I could—”
“You could, had you your little weapons. I will not ask again.”
I sat back down.
He walked around me five times before he stopped and sat down again, pulling his stool next to me.
“Let us not talk of murder. Do you even know which part of the city you were in? You would have been detained merely for casting strange looks. So what took you to the house? A three-year-old murder or something you knew would still be there, untouched, even unspoilt? I will tell you what I know of Basu Fumanguru. He was loved by the people. Every man knows of his clashes with the King. Every woman knows of his clashes with his fellow elders. They killed him for some other reason.”
“They?” I asked.
“What happened to those bodies could not have been by one man, if done by man at all, and not some beast bewitched.”
He looked at me so long and so quiet that I opened my mouth, not to speak, just to look as if I was going to.
“I have something to show you,” he said.
He left the room. I heard flies. I wondered how they questioned the Ogo, or if they just left him alone to unspool how many he has killed in as many years. A
nd what about me? Was all this the Ogudu, or did the forest itself leave something in me, waiting to strike? Something other than a reminder of my loneliness? Also this. What a strange thought to be had right here, when a prefect is trying to trap me into whatever charge he long thought to make up.
He walked back in and threw something at me so quick that I caught it before I knew what it was. Black and stuffed soft with feathers, wrapped in the same aso oke cloth that I had shoved into this curtain I was wearing. I was ready this time when it came, everything that came with a smell I now knew.
“A doll,” he said.
“I know what it is.”
“We found it three years ago near the body of the youngest boy.”
“A boy can play with dolls.”
“No child in Kongor would have been given one. Kongori think it’s training children in the way of worshipping idols—a terrible sin.”
“And yet every house has statues.”
“They just like statues. But this doll belonged to no one in that house.”
“Fumanguru was not Kongori.”
“An elder would have respected their traditions.”
“Maybe the doll belonged to the killer.”
“The killer is one year old?”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying there was one more child in that house. Maybe whoever killed the family came for the child. Or something else, much more wild,” he said.
“That does sound wild. The child, a poor relation?”
“We spoke to all family.”
“So did Belekun the Big. Maybe you asked questions together?”
“Are you saying the elders are doing their own investigation?”
“I say you and I are not the only ones who went messing around dead Fumanguru’s house. Whatever they sought, I don’t think they found it. This is not feeling like an interrogation anymore, prefect.”
“It stopped being so when we entered the room, Tracker. And I told you my name is Mossi. Now do you want to tell me how you just appeared in this city? There’s no record of your entry, and Kongor is nothing if not a place of records.”
“I came through a door.”
He stared at me, then laughed. “I will remember to ask next time I see you.”
