Song Beneath the Tides

by Beverley Birch

  She will not dare stop Ally’s talk with the storyteller! She will not dare!

  ‘Leli?’ the storyteller insisted.

  Hastily, Leli turned to him. ‘Ninety-six years, you have, Mzee.’

  Mzee Kitwana drew a wheezing breath. ‘Certain it is, that when my breath did not creak like an old goat . . . yes, then, then . . .’ He was suddenly dreamy, observing Kisiri island through half-closed lids.

  The silence stretched. Leli willed him on. The old man was falling asleep! It had happened in recent years, even at the festival. Elders had murmured to him, music played, the little children allowed to run about and laugh to help him wake gently and remember what he was doing.

  Mzee Kitwana cleared his throat. He drew himself up straight, folding his hands over the carved head of his walking stick. ‘Zamani . . .’ he began softly, ‘that is, you say – long, long ago . . .’

  A chill touched Leli, like the hand of a ghost. He was small again, and something was being conjured by the rhythm of the old man’s voice. Low and calm he always began, in that long night on Kisiri. Only the slow swell of the water beyond the shores, the trees’ rustle, the firelight’s flicker, his tone lifting, strengthening as the old, old story took his listeners and his words began to paint . . .

  ‘Fumo and Zawati. Great warriors, wise leaders, to whom we owe our place, our good life here, the lives of our ancestors and the lives of our children yet to come.

  ‘Many hundreds of years in the past, their tale begins. Five hundred years – perhaps more, perhaps less. Not far from here . . . a day or two’s journey by the water, so they say.

  ‘In those days, my young friends, many towns were on this coast, with many ships. To and fro, from city to city and far beyond, they carried the wealth of our land. And many ships from far away came on the ocean winds, bringing riches beyond dreams! Life was good, and the people prospered.

  ‘But listen, now. One year, strange ships appeared. Great oceans they had crossed! Great dangers passed! They had dreams too, these strangers. To see new lands, to encounter wonders. But also – also – to take the good things of these lands for themselves and become rich with them.

  ‘In one town, then another and another – the people felt the strangers’ iron fist! Each day the strangers demanded more. Obedience to their king across the sea in Portugal! Taxes from every ship that passed!

  ‘Sometimes, when the towns gave what they asked, the strangers sailed on quickly across the ocean to India and Arabia. But sometimes they were too late to catch the monsoon winds to carry them there. Ah, then, then . . . For many months these men had nothing to do, except feed their greed. And oh, what greed, my young friends! They wanted everything. Like pirates, they were. They wandered this coast. They captured ships. They took men and women and children as slaves. They stole cargos.

  ‘Ah – sad, it was. Some towns tried to buy their peace. Sometimes, they paid a heavy, heavy price. Yet still those strangers took and took and took, and left nothing for the people of the towns, or for the inland people who traded with the towns.

  ‘But some towns said, No! One of these cities was far, far, on the islands of the north, Utate, where the boy Fumo and the girl Zawati lived with their mothers and fathers. The King of Utate sent a message to the greedy strangers. We have given you everything! Utate has no more to give.

  ‘How dare a king say no? In your most terrible dreams you cannot imagine the strangers’ rage! Trample him down! Destroy his people! All other cities must fear their punishment!

  ‘Oh, the power of those strangers’ guns! The soldiers! Before the sun was high they captured brave Utate. They stole everything. From the king’s palace and the people’s houses, rich and poor. So much they loaded on their ships that one sank in the harbour and the soldiers drowned in their greed.

  ‘All that grew, that fed the people, burned. The roar of flames and the pillars of smoke and the crashing of stone was like the end of the world itself, even the birds in the skies aflame. Only smouldering ash, and ruin, and death remained. Then the strangers went away, seeking another city to torment.

  ‘But not everyone died. Some fled the flames. Some lived. And when the sails of the vengeful ships had vanished beyond the seas, they returned to the ruins of their city, to bury the dead, and to mourn.

  ‘Ah, but was their torment ended?

  ‘No. No, no, no. Their torment waited on the Kusi winds like a monster sniffing its next feast.

  ‘The next year came; the Kusi monsoon blew. Dhows brought news of the strangers nearing. They told of how these strangers had already murdered the sultan of another city and flogged his council.

  ‘We are too few to fight, we have no guns! some of Utate’s people said. We must flee! Let us leave the strangers an empty town – at least we keep our lives!

  ‘But who can tell where courage lies, till it is tested? Some asked, Why should these savage men threaten peaceful places again and again? Why should they snatch away what people have? Among those who spoke was Fumo, who was of your age, Leli. And his friend, Zawati, who was of your age, Sunlight. Such anger in them! Such sorrow, for losing their mothers and fathers in the killing time before!

  ‘And so, with some of the people, these two young ones remained. Others left in peace. Yet when they saw their neighbours prepare to defend Utate, they turned back, and peoples from inland places came to help, with archers and other fighting men, and even three men of Portugal. For in all peoples, all lands, some do great evil. Others fight evil wherever they find it. It is a choice a man or woman – or boy or girl – may make . . .

  ‘These three Portuguese sailors hated the greed of their pirate countrymen. They had escaped the ships and hidden among Utate’s people. They knew Utate had no guns: the ships had hundreds. These men of Portugal knew guns. So they took the many broken cannon from the sunken Portuguese vessel in Utate’s harbour; from them they made three strong guns, and put them on the town walls. Then they stood ready, day and night, to defend their chosen home.

  ‘Three guns against hundreds. But also the hearts and souls of the people. Fumo and Zawati told each other, there is no victory in fighting to the death. Thousands died when the soldiers came before. This must be a fight for Life. Together they went to their king and said, We must prepare our escape as wisely as we prepare our battle! And the king and council heard their wisdom. Then, among the mangroves, in the sheltered waters, people hid boats with food and weapons ready. They prepared two dhows for sinking in the harbour, to make the enemy believe that everyone died in trying to escape, that no one lived to be hunted down and punished. Then this army of the people waited for the dreaded day.

  ‘The strangers’ ships sailed into sight. Let the king swear loyalty to us! the strangers ordered. Let your king pay tribute!

  ‘The king refused.

  ‘Give us your king for punishment! the strangers screamed.

  ‘Only Utate’s roaring cannon answered, and on the town walls, the marching men and women with bows and swords and spears held ready. For many hours they kept ships and invaders out. No boat could land, no enemy set foot on any shore.

  ‘But Utate’s people grew tired. Night fell. Unseen in the darkness, one ship surged in on the tide and threw a plank from ship to wall to make a bridge – and so the invaders broke into the town.

  ‘Then, on the rooftops, in the alleys, on the stairways of the houses, the battle raged, and in the thick of it, Zawati and the other women. Stones and arrows hurled against the enemy’s muskets and crossbows! Rocks rolled down the hills! Even driving the king’s elephants around to terrify the enemy.

  ‘With such courage all the people fought, and so fierce among them were the women and young Fumo and Zawati that for years their valour was sung and danced in places up and down the coast and in the inland villages too. Fame of that terrible battle spread everywhere.

  ‘More and more soldiers poured in
from the ships. Fumo and Zawati saw the tide was turning against their people. They sent some to harass the invaders and keep them busy, others to swim out in secret and sink the dhows to block the harbour so no Portuguese ship could leave. And in darkness, as Fumo and others held the invaders in battle, Zawati led the people from the town.

  ‘But Fate waited to deal a heavy, heavy blow. As the people fled, a soldier trapped Zawati and raised his sword to kill her. A youth rushed in to take the blow upon himself, and was cut down. This is why Mwana Zawati never married, keeping this youth’s love in her heart and for ever carrying the scars of that day. For in that moment, she lost her sight. Blind. And yet not blind. Do we see only with the eye?

  ‘It was the time of Kusi, and the rain was heavy. The night was moonless. The last of the people entered the canoes. Together, they were led south by Fumo and Zawati, who was suffering greatly from her wounds but remained steadfast beside Fumo. Close to the shore the people travelled, hidden by the mangroves. On through the night and the next day, until, on the second night, the tides and currents brought them to an island.

  ‘The island had many trees to shield them from enemy eyes. Thick sea mists rose about it. For the first time, they felt they could rest. During that long darkness, while others slept, Zawati rose. Something more was asked of her, she knew. She must open her mind and hear.

  ‘She went up on to the hill of the island and turned her sightless eyes north, towards the dying flames of their distant, ruined city. They could never go back; no peace awaited them there. Only endless war, imprisonment to the strangers’ greed. She wept for the deaths that would always come from it. She wept for their loss.

  ‘Then she felt Fumo standing strong beside her. He too had woken and climbed the hill. She felt the spirits of the island gather round and hold her in their calm. The spirits told her that the people must cross the water and go into the forests of the land. Deep among the trees, they should build their home, for there the savage strangers would not venture, keeping to the sea they understood, afraid of the land they did not.

  ‘Straightaway she went with Fumo and told the king and Elders of this vision. And so, in the place revealed to Zawati by the spirits of the forest and the spirits of the island, there the people settled.

  ‘In time it was clear that Bwana Fumo, although he was very young, was a magnificent leader. They named him Kwazi, the Eagle of the Sea. And Mwana Zawati, our Gift, she who had great foresight, was a fine warrior and forever brave, a wise leader of the town beside Fumo, and a great poet. Everywhere, her all-seeing words were sung and danced!

  ‘In time, when those savage invaders had long disappeared, the boundaries of the town spread from the deep forest to the sea. Fine stone houses it had, and palaces, and deep wells with fresh water. Many ships came to shelter in its creeks and trade with it. Peace reigned, and it flourished, and the people lived good lives.

  ‘In time, when Mwana Zawati and Bwana Fumo were old and close to death, they asked to be taken to the island, to become one with the spirits who had led them to this place of refuge. The island came to be known as Kisiri, which means Secret, the secret place that had hidden the people, and the place from where the great leaders could watch over the people for ever.

  ‘So it was. So it remained. Time went by. Sadly, new enemies from other lands came to challenge the freedom of the people in their great and peaceful city . . .

  ‘But that, my young friends, is another story. And you would need much, much time to hear it . . .’

  Are these stories calling me? In the forest. On the island? Is that what I’m hearing? The idea grew in Ally’s mind, brought flickers of sound, trailing, chanting echoes.

  She tried to drive the sensations away, to concentrate on Leli thanking the storyteller. She roused herself to do the same. Mzee Kitwana was already half-closing his eyes as if settling to a nap. She glanced round – at Shanza’s thatched roofs among the palms, the earth yards, the narrow paths between the houses. At the small child leading a goat on a scrap of string, chattering shrilly to herself.

  ‘You listen well, I see, Daughter of Sunlight,’ Mzee Kitwana’s voice came dreamily. ‘You look at our simple place. You ask yourself, where are the fine stone houses of Fumo and Zawati’s town?’

  Astonished, she turned to him. He knows? How?

  Eyes closed, he murmured, ‘Our Shanza has been here many years. Before my life, Shanza was here, and I am very old. But this is not the place of Fumo and Zawati. That place was near. Perhaps it is all around us. This we believe. This we feel. This our stories tell us.’

  He sat up suddenly, straight-backed, and waved a hand at Kisiri. ‘There are other stories that my father knew, of a fort that was made, a great stone fort, on an island of these seas. Made by the men from the ships in the years after Fumo and Zawati died. And of the terrible deeds of the men who lived there, and the terrible death they suffered for their wickedness.’

  Pure dread flooded Ally. And then shrill, strident voices, there, then gone. She fought back panic, dimly aware of Leli looking at her with worry in his face. Did I say, do something?

  Only the storyteller’s rhythmic voice continued. ‘Some say the fort was built here, on our Kisiri, and the spirit of Fumo and Zawati brought the vengeance of the island on them for making a fort of war in our place of sanctuary. Me, I do not like such stories. I do not remember Fumo and Zawati as vengeful people! And you see there is no fort here on our island. Only the great Portuguese fort at Ulima, which is far, far. So perhaps the stories have twisted about each other like the strands of a rope, the way stories should, when they are made fresh and green by their teller.

  ‘But I say this: the songs of Fumo and Zawati outlived the time beyond them. Even after these barbarous men in their ships no longer came to our shores, when others, not of the West, men of the East this time, who came as friends, came to put their mark down and say, this is my land now! Then, others from the West came to take it back again! To and fro, to and fro! Like these strangers on boats who run roaring round us now as if they are the kings of everywhere—’

  ‘Mzee,’ Leli broke in, catching her eye with an urgent glance, ‘we ask too,’ he paused, as if marshalling his words, ‘we want to know, if you saw canoes, in the night, many many canoes, travelling secretly like Fumo—’

  The old man snapped his eyes very wide. He looked at Ally, then back at Leli. Then he threw back his head, laughing. ‘I would think I had drunk too much tembo, Leli, and would perhaps not tell anyone! But,’ he said softly, ‘I would also know that knowledge is like a garden. If you do not cultivate it, it will not grow.’

  He paused, reached into his pouch, and took out something small. He folded his fingers round it and put it to his forehead, then against his chest.

  Then he held it out, palm upwards, opening his fingers.

  ‘For you, Leli.’

  Leli stared down at the small, round object, and then up into the old man’s face.

  ‘And I would hope,’ came the deep voice again, ‘that the spirit of Fumo is speaking to me, and that the message is worth hearing. Is the message worth hearing, Leli?’

  ‘It is warnings,’ Leli said fiercely to Ally, walking fast away – she could barely keep up. He halted suddenly. ‘You will think I am very mad?’

  She couldn’t shake the images the storyteller had conjured. Burning, slaughter, bodies, Zawati’s blood running from her eyes. But it was not like seeing things in films, knowing it was only a film. Or even seeing it on TV news, knowing it was real but happening somewhere else and far away.

  Mzee Kitwana’s pictures dug deep inside her head, as if the stench of burning was in her nostrils. She saw the shadowy figures reaching Kisiri’s hidden slopes in tiny boats, in the dead of night, in a storm, wounded, bleeding, battle weary, afraid.

  ‘Not mad,’ she said. ‘No! Course not, Leli, I couldn’t think that!’ She tried to frame clear quest
ions from the jumble of her head. ‘Have you seen that kind of thing before?’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘The canoes, the weirdness on Kisiri.’

  For a moment he was silent. Then, ‘Only when you came to here.’

  ‘Me!’ She stared into his face, trying to make sense of that. ‘What do you mean?’

  He held her eyes. ‘I tell truth, Ally. I think, and think, and think about this, but truly, these things . . . only when you arrive at your auntie’s house . . . when I know you are here.’

  She tried to take this in. ‘But—’

  ‘It is so!’ He looked down at his hand, and now he opened it, showing her what the storyteller had given him.

  A circular piece of darkened, tarnished metal lay there, like a large coin.

  ‘The Mzee carries it since always. He shows it at the festival when he tells the stories.’

  He held it out, and she took it. It was warm from his hand, and felt very old, burnished by many hands, the lines of an image almost worn away.

  ‘What’s the picture? An arch?’

  ‘It is his wings. Against the sun,’ said Leli. ‘Kwazi. The Eagle. He is flying against Zawati’s light, and see—’

  He turned it over in the palm of her hand. On the other side she could make out something like crossed sticks. She peered closer, and realized. ‘Spears?’

  ‘Fumo and Zawati. Two spears.’

  With one finger, she traced the surface. ‘So why’s Mzee Kitwana given it to you? Is it a lucky charm?’

  He was studying her face as if trying to make up his mind about something.

  ‘I have dreams of Fumo – of this . . .’ He wrinkled his nose and chewed his lip in concentration. He began again, ‘I do not know why the Mzee gives this to me. But I have dreams. It is a trouble to me. I have not told Mzee Kitwana. The dreams come many time in the night. But I tell you, only when you are here! Truly, Ally! First, I tell you, the night you come to Dr Carole’s house, before we greet you in the morning. Then next night, after you were in Shanza, and then the night after we went to Kisiri. After the camping, in the rain.’ He counted on his fingers, showed her. ‘Four nights.’