Nyumbani Tales Page 10

  Ahead of her lay ... a dream. Despite the sobs shaking her slight frame, Kiemba was buoyed by that dream. She refused to consider the possibility that she had suffered greatly for a mirage. The one she sought must ... must abide at the summit of the harsh, craggy hill. He must ...

  Suddenly, Kiemba stopped. Standing motionless as a carving, she listened. Yes ... she could hear it again. A distant suggestion of sound ... a clink of metal against metal, a scuff of leather against stone. Kiemba looked down the trail and saw several dark, indistinct shapes in the distance.

  Panic seized her. She began to run desperately, terror rushing through her in sick waves. So soon had the Sao discovered what she had done. Now they pursued her, easily following her crimson spoor.

  In that single glimpse downward, Kiemba had realized that the Sao were not hurrying. How long, they undoubtedly thought, could a bleeding young woman remain ahead of them?

  Longer than you think, Kiemba vowed fiercely. Her determination was as hard as steel. But the outrages she had endured earlier in the day were beginning to exact their toll. The wings fear had lent to her feet vanished. Her footsteps faltered, and her knees began to buckle. She knew she would collapse soon. She would lie exhausted on the trail, helpless when the Sao finally came for her.

  She tripped and sprawled painfully on broken stone. The sounds behind her grew louder. Kiemba forced herself to her feet ... and gazed wide-eyed at the yawning mouth of the cave that marked the termination of the trail. Despite the fatigue creeping through her limbs, a flame of gratification kindled in her heart. She had been right! The legend sung by generations of griots was true. She had found the Cavern of Sundiata, the God- who-was-a-man ... and Sundiata would be there.

  Without hesitation, Kiemba made her way into the beckoning blackness of the cave. Squealing, leather-winged bats brushed past her face. She paid them no heed. Her attention was claimed by a splash of golden luminescence deep within the cavern’s interior.

  Kiemba walked through the darkness, unmindful of the possibility of pitfalls or unseen projections of rock. The splash of light grew larger, taking the form of a half-circle. The golden glow seemed to suffuse her soul. And in the peaceful emanations it bore, Kiemba could almost forget what the Sao had done to her, and what she in turn had done to their leader.

  She reached the half-circle that led into another chamber of the cavern. With a broad smile on her dark face, Kiemba entered the chamber to meet Sundiata.

  THE GLOW ILLUMINATING the chamber had no discernible source, but that mystery was not Kiemba’s major concern. Disbelief replaced the joy that had lit her features as she stared at the figure that sat on a raised dais of granite.

  It was a man ... a tall man of spare physique and serene countenance. His body was draped in a single length of unembroidered cloth. He wore not ornaments. Across his lap, a long, tapering staff rested in long-fingered hands. Despite the simplicity of his garb, the figure exuded an impression of peace and power harmoniously combined ... for all that it was a figure carved from the same stone as the dais ...

  Only a statue, nothing more, Kiemba thought numbly. Still, she spoke the name of the god-man the sculpture represented.

  “Sundiata,” she whispered through dry lips. “Sundiata...”

  Without conscious volition, her feet carried her across the empty space between herself and the sculpture. Reaching it, she dropped to her knees in hopeless supplication. She leaned against the sculpted feet. Stone toes butted against her face.

  Kiemba began to weep. In a bitter flood, tears cascaded down her dark cheeks, splashing onto the stone feet of Sundiata. It seemed she would stay there forever ... until she heard harsh noises behind her.

  Kiemba dragged herself to her feet to face the intruders. They were scouts from the Sao army – five wiry men in light leather harnesses. Close-fitting helmets framed their scowling black faces. Swords sprouted from their clenched fists.

  “Kotoko bitch!” spat the foremost Sao. “Did you truly think you could escape us by leaving a trail a child could follow? That doesn’t matter now, though. We are going to make you pay for the death you gave Ikeno.”

  The Sao advanced. The expressions on their faces were as flat and deadly as the blades of their swords. Kiemba stood in hopeless resignation. The dream that had sustained her through so much travail was as dead as the stone of the statue behind her. Head bowed, she awaited the bite of blades into her flesh.

  Suddenly, the footsteps of the Sao halted, and Kiemba heard several sharply indrawn breaths. She looked up ... and saw that their faces had become masks of shock and amazement. Behind her, she heard a rustle of cloth against flesh. Turning slowly, Kiemba gazed upon a sight that astonished her as much as it had the Sao.

  Sundiata lived!

  Sundiata was standing. Gray, lifeless rock had become smooth black flesh and bright white cloth. On his dark, narrow face, an expression of terrible wrath was forming. A blue-white nimbus flickered around his staff as he lifted it high above his head.

  Then Sundiata stepped off the dais. The motion shattered the spell of disbelief that had initially stunned the Sao.

  “It’s only a man with a piece of wood,” one of the soldiers shouted. “Let’s kill him!”

  Swords upraised, the five Sao rushed toward Sundiata, who had calmly positioned himself between them and Kiemba. He held the long staff lightly as a wand, unmindful of the blue and white lines crackling up and down its length.

  The Sao formed a semicircle around Sundiata. Then their spokesman leaped forward and slashed viciously Sundiata’s throat. Sundiata’s staff flicked upward to meet the Sao’s blade. As cold steel struck enchanted wood, a dazzling discharge concussed through the cavern.

  The attacker collapsed, dead before he struck the stone floor. Wisps of smoke floated from the Sao’s charred corpse.

  Fear replaced the confident sneers on the faces of the remaining Sao. This stranger was no easy victim after all; powerful sorcery was evidently his to command. Almost as one, the Sao whirled and rushed toward the chamber’s exit – and crashed and stumbled against each other in their haste to come to a halt when they saw the grim-faced Sundiata blocking their escape.

  Merciless marauders though they were, the Sao stood frozen with dread as Sundiata raised his glowing staff. With both hands, the robed man held his weapon high above his head as his eyes blazed in merciless wrath. Before any of the Sao could think to move, streams of spectral, white incandescence shot from the staff. The stricken Sao screamed in agony, then dropped – each one a blackened husk that crumbled on impact with the floor.

  Kiemba stared blankly at the litter of shattered corpses reduced to ashes. Then she walked toward Sundiata. When she reached his side, she again fell to her knees and buried her face in the folds of his robe.

  “You live,” she murmured. Thank Nyame, you live.”

  SUDDENLY, KIEMBA FELT herself being raised to her feet. Sundiata’s touch was neither gentle nor forceful. It was as impersonal as the pelting of rain during the wet season. Looking into his face, Kiemba saw that the rage that had twisted his features was gone. His eyes now mirrored calm concern – and reproach.

  “Who are you, and why have you awakened me?” he demanded.

  Kiemba could not reply. Remembering the fire that had struck down the Sao, she shivered – fear momentarily replacing the adoration she bore for Sundiata.

  “Do not fear me, child,” Sundiata said, as though he could read her thoughts. “Your belief in me has awakened me from my slumber. I would not harm you, even though I prefer the peace from which you have summoned me. Yet I must know why you sought me, and why come to me bleeding and pursued by the Sao.”

  Kiemba lowered her head in shame, mindful of the clothing the Sao had torn from the upper part of her body and the blood that caked her thighs.

  “Speak, child,” Sundiata urged gently.

  As the story of Kiemba, daughter of Otunji the drum-maker unfolded, the emotions reflected in Sundiata’s face ranged from
pity to wrath. There was war between Kiemba’s kingdom of Kotoko and neighboring Sao, homeland of the charred marauders. The struggle was as ancient as the founding of the two kingdoms, the advantage ebbing and flowing like the tides.

  In the current conflict, however, the Sao had acquired a champion: a being possessed of the strength of the mightiest warrior and the skill of the most adept sorcerer. Oshahar was the name of the champion who had led the army of Sao to the gates of Kotoko.

  “Oshahar?” Sundiata interrupted, surprise echoing in his tone.

  “Yes, Sundiata ... your brother, Oshahar,” Kiemba replied. “But we know your brother could not be part of this evil. The one who leads the Sao must be a sorcerer or demon who has stolen Oshahar’s name.”

  “Perhaps,” Sundiata said, shadows clouding his dark eyes. “But you do not believe that, child. Not truly. If you believed that Oshahar had departed, along with me, at the end of the Second Coming of the Mashataan, you would never have come to this cavern.”

  Indeed, of all the people of besieged Kotoko, only Kiemba had believed in the songs of the griots – songs that hinted cryptically of a cave hidden in the rocky foothills that led to the Gwaridi Milima Mountains. No one had paid much heed to Kiemba’s interpretation of the griots’ songs. She had seen the passing of only sixteen rains, and she had only recently undergone the shakati rite of passage, which allowed her to wear her hair in the beaded braids of womanhood. Her father, Otunji, did not listen to her. Neither did her lover, whose name was Musonkino. Both were preoccupied with the battle against the invaders.

  But Kiemba’s belief in the legend of Sundiata was strong. Three nights past, she had slipped from her father’s house and out of the besieged city, confident that she could follow the griot’s directions to the fabled Cavern of Sundiata. But in the hills, she had fallen captive to a band of Sao scout-troops. After discovering that she knew nothing of the military plans for Kotoko, the troops had raped her, brutally and repeatedly. She had ended up with the scouts’ leader, who insisted upon being both the first and last Sao man to have her.

  Sleep finally claimed the soldier, but not Kiemba, who slew the Sao with his own dagger. Revolted by her deed, she dropped the weapon – but retained sufficient presence of mind to escape undetected from the encampment. The scouts had discovered the corpse of their leader, and pursued Kiemba to the cavern.

  At the conclusion of Kiemba’s tale, Sundiata stared impassively at the ashes of the Sao.

  “The Staff of Nyankuma slew them too swiftly,” he murmured.

  “Time grows short, O Sundiata,” Kiemba said, urgency underlining her words. “The Sao have surrounded our city, and Oshahar demands that we either surrender or face destruction. The Amir, our king, defies him. But Oshahar will surely overwhelm us, for neither sword nor spell can affect him. More and more of our people oppose the Amir’s stand against Oshahar.”

  “We must go to Kotoko at once,” Sundiata declared.

  “But we are three days’ journey from the city!” Kiemba exclaimed.

  “Distance means nothing to the Staff of Nyankuma,” he said. “Come. Grip the staff with both hands. Do not fear it.”

  Kiemba reached out and gripped the staff, her hands touching those of the God-who-was-a-man. A vibration tingled through her fingers, and she could feel the outlines of strange carvings pressing against her palms.

  Sundiata spoke words from a language Kiemba couldn’t understand. Then the cavern disappeared.

  UNDER THE BEST OF CIRCUMSTANCES, the sudden appearance of a strangely garbed man and a half-naked young woman in the middle of Kotoko would have disconcerted the inhabitants of the city. To materialize thusly at night in a city under siege would have been suicidal for anyone – save for Sundiata. Musonkino, lover of Kiemba, was the leader of the night-watch. He stood within two feet of the spot where the two figures appeared, seemingly from nowhere.

  Musonkino’s first reaction was to assume that Kiemba and Sundiata were ghosts summoned by Oshahar. Swords drawn, Musonkino and his fellow soldiers advanced on the intruders. Then Musonkino recognized Kiemba. Considering her tattered condition and the strangeness of Sundiata, the words that came from Musonkino’s mouth were not surprising.

  “Take you hands off her, you – ” the young soldier snarled as he reached to drag Kiemba away from the man he considered to be her captor. Neither his sentence nor his motion was completed.

  Sundiata touched Musonkino gently with the tip of his staff. The soldier fell as though struck by a giant. He sat up, shaking his head in confusion. The rest of the night-watch stopped short, weapons raised.

  Kiemba disengaged herself from Sundiata and rushed to the side of Musonkino. She cradled his head in her arms, and stared up at the other soldiers.

  “Oh, you fools!” she cried, scorn lacing her words. “Do you not recognize Sundiata, the God-who-is-a-man? The only one who can stand against Oshahar? And you dare to raise your weapons against him!”

  There was a compelling glint in Kiemba’s eyes as she faced the armored soldiers. Then the stresses of the past few days overwhelmed her, and she slid into a state of exhausted semi-consciousness.

  Sundiata spoke for the first time then, his voice quiet, yet carrying an undertone of authority.

  “It is true,” he said. “I am Sundiata. Because Kiemba believed in me, I live again. I must speak with your Amir at once. Please take me to him, and see that Kiemba is treated well. She has endured much for the sake of Kotoko.”

  Incredulity was written deeply on the faces of the soldiers. Yet as they gazed at the faintly glowing Staff of Nyankuma, they were compelled to believe that this was, indeed, Sundiata, who had passed into myth before the grandparents of their grandparents were born. They hastened to carry out Sundiata’s wishes.

  Thus, Sundiata was escorted to the gold-spired palace of the Amir, while Musonkino himself carried Kiemba to the house of her father. While the God-who-was-a-man conferred with the bemused Amir, Kiemba thrashed and moaned in distress on a sweat-soaked bed. Otunji and Musonkino kept vigil at her side, along with her mother, Sahia.

  The herb-woman they had summoned had long since completed their ministrations. Yet Kiemba continued to cry out in delirium. When she spoke of her rape by the Sao scouts, it took the combined efforts of Otunji and Sahia to prevent Musonkino from rushing out to confront Oshahar’s army single-handed.

  Later, when Kiemba spoke of Sundiata, Musonkino did depart the house of the drum-maker. For when Kiemba blurted disjointed words about how Sundiata had come to live, and wreaked vengeance upon the Sao, her trembling and tears ceased. A smile spread across her face, and she spoke in a way Musonkino had always thought was meant only for him, not Sundiata.

  Musonkino walked Kotoko’s streets like a man bearing a difficult burden. If Kiemba truly loved Sundiata, how could he, Musonkino, compete with a god? And worse – how could he hate his own savior?

  IN THE BRIGHT GLARE of the morning sun, the Sao army was a formidable sight. Rank after rank of horsemen sat on magnificent mounts, lances glittering like rows of steel fangs. Cotton cloth and chain-mail draped horse and rider alike. Foot soldiers were positioned in front of the horsemen. Usually, these were a sullen lot composed of men unable to afford horses and mail. The Sao foot troops, however, were well-accoutered with swords, javelins and large hide shields.

  Though their numbers were impressive enough, it was the faces of the Sao that inspired dread in those who sought to oppose them. Their faces were as expressionless as masks carved from jet. Only their eyes showed life. They were the eyes of madmen, men who would never cease fighting until they were cut to pieces. These were the soldiers of Oshahar.

  Oshahar stood at the head of his forces. Seven feet from the ground he towered, his thews mighty as a buffalo’s. The sun glistened dully on his soot-dark skin. His only garments were a horned helmet made of bone and a lion-girdle fashioned from human skin. In his hands, the giant carried a staff much like that of Sundiata, only much larger.

  T
his was Oshahar – the invincible, the destroyer. Like a deity of death, he stood at the van of his mad-eyed army, waiting for the men of Kotoko to come forth to meet their doom.

  As if in protest, huge iron hinges groaned until the gates of Kotoko gaped fully ajar. But no horde of desperate defenders issued from the opening. Only one man strode out to meet the Sao host. Only Sundiata ...

  Gaunt, robed, his staff resembling a walking stick more than a weapon, Sundiata appeared more scholar than warrior. He wore no armor and bore no blade. Yet for all his non-military demeanor, he was cloaked in quiet power and dignity.

  The Sao did not react to the appearance of Sundiata, nor to the open gates of Kotoko. Only Oshahar moved. As Sundiata approached, Oshahar marched to meet him. A few feet apart, the contrasting figures halted, facing each other in a symbolic tableau of good and evil.

  To the Sao, the confrontation of Gods-who-were-men was meaningless, for Oshahar’s magic had stolen their wits. To the people of Kotoko, it seemed that a titanic struggle was about to begin: an unleashing of unimaginable eldritch power. Yet Sundiata and Oshahar remained motionless, staring into each other’s eyes.

  This was no battle. It was a meeting of brothers whose link was inconceivable to those who shared only blood kinship...

  Oshahar, Sundiata said, his voice echoing inside his brother’s mind. Why do you do the work of the Mashataan? Why do you corrupt and destroy the people we died to save so long ago?

  From the recesses of the tortured soul that seethed beneath the bone mask, Oshahar replied in a tone laden with torment.

  Not ... my ... will ... Sundiata. I was awakened by ... blood. A sorcerer of Sao ... ruthless, ambitious ... discovered my cavern ...cut his hand ... bled onto my stone body ... awakened me. I killed him ... he screamed betrayal ... as I tore him to pieces ... and clothed myself ... in his skin... and made myself ... what he wanted me to be. He did not know ... what blood does ... to us. I have turned the men of Sao ... into killers. I am cursed ... must kill ... must kill ...