The Prophets(55)
You are of the common folk. By common we mean dancing, singing, weaving, speaking: the ones who could have held their heads high but chose to hold their hands high instead. For they knew that all the universe wanted was their reverence, not their pride.
Pride is what leads people onto ships, across seas, into forbidden lands. It is what allows them to desecrate forbidden bodies and stamp them with the names of reckless gods. Pride is at once haunted and unbothered by the disgrace it has built from turning people into nothing.
Common.
Ordinary.
Fine and ordinary.
The weaver no less vital than the king.
We do not mean to give you the impression of an untroubled period in which cruelty was unthinkable. That is, unfortunately, not what nature is. Nature is rugged simply—with not a single favored One to be found anywhere. But we are here to draw the distinction between this place and that one.
It requires that we go back further than we are capable of taking you without great sacrifice to our shape and number—which we are willing to do if necessary. It is, after all, our responsibility. Certain promises were made. Certain mistakes bear our names. If we can avoid it, however, if we can rely on your best sense, which lies so dormant in you that we are not sure it can be woke, the undoing of time would neither be called upon nor necessary.
To begin, we just need you to do one thing: Remember.
But memory is not enough.
II Kings
The council gathered at the royal hut. No one had the time to put on ceremonial robes of fine fabrics, skins, and furs. They came as they were: the women with heads that weren’t completely shaven, the men with their penises dangling behind skirts instead of tubed and tied firm against their navels.
They all sat on pieces of cloth that formed a circle around a large pot of palm wine. King Akusa’s six wives darted back and forth between pouring the wine into small bowls and handing them to council members, twelve in all. B’Dula spoke out of turn.
“We should kill them all.”
The king shot a damning glance his way as the others shifted uncomfortably on their behinds.
“You never fail to insult the ancestors, B’Dula. Nor yourself.” King Akusa rubbed her hands together and took a breath. “I called this meeting and you did not even think to give me the respect of speaking first. Surely, your saltiness from so long ago does not still cloud your reason. You could not possibly have forgotten your lessons so completely. Kill a visitor and bring down the ancestors’ wrath. Kill a neighbor and start an unnecessary war. This is a time for careful contemplation, not childish rage. You will be silent or be gone.”
B’Dula sank into himself. He considered the fact that he had been bested by the king in battle and so would not test her resolve.
“Now,” she continued. “The Gussu broke with tradition and brought strangers into our midst without proper notification, it is true. But the penalty for this is not death, but expulsion.”
Some of the council members nodded. Those who agreed with B’Dula made no gesture at all. Semjula, one of the eldest of the Kosongo, and also a seer, took a sip of wine.
“With your permission, King.”
King Akusa nodded. Semjula stood. Her frame was bent. She was the color of the soil just after a downpour. Her breasts hung down as a testament to her life and the lives she nourished. Her red jewelry, not nearly as dark as blood, rattled as she used a stick with the head of a snake for balance.
“Death is the wrong answer,” she said in a heavy voice. She wiped her free hand on the green skirt wrapped neatly around her hips. “But I have a very bad feeling about sending them away, too. The voices tell me that we are in an impossible position. Whatever we decide to do, it should wait until after Elewa and Kosii’s ceremony. That will give us a few days to think about how to proceed.”
“Thank you, Mama Semjula. I wonder, too, if I should send word to the Sewteri and warn them,” the king pondered. “Maybe send a messenger.”
All nodded.
“Where are the . . . visitors now?” King Akusa asked.
“Still in the guard’s hut, my king,” Semjula answered.
The king turned to Ketwa. “Did we feed them?”
“No, my king,” he answered.
“Well, let us not be inhospitable and cause fire to rain down upon us. Fix them some fish and banana. And bring them some palm wine.”
* * *
—
KOSII GATHERED THE LEOPARD-SKIN cape made from a recent hunt that he had traveled far to wash in the river. After, he had set it to dry, pounded it until it was smooth, and all with the skill of his mother, Yendi, who taught him how, he draped it about his shoulders. He arranged the peacock feathers carefully in a circle. He decided to wear the jewelry crafted by his eldest sister’s expert hands because Yendi was fond of turquoise and paid close attention to detail. His medicine stick belonged to his father, Tagundu, passed down from his own father. Kosii would be expected to pass it to his firstborn child when the time came.
On his face, Kosii spread the red clay of the earth: a line across his forehead, horizon; two dots on each cheek, sun setting, moon rising; and a short vertical line on his chin, foundation. All of this was to express not just his sincerity but his willingness to protect his betrothed. He smiled. Elewa’s aunts were the most difficult to convince. Seven women, but one giant mind that was as immovable as a boulder and brighter than any light in the sky. Kosii knew that he was not the fastest runner, nor were his hunting skills as sharp as some other members of the tribe. But he was a great strategist and the key was in assuring them of the benefits of such an asset in the kinship circle. Furthermore, there was nary another Kosongo who had his proud, young heart. Nor could they be as tender, and certainly the aunts would want that quality to be present in anyone who even dreamed of holding their nephew Elewa.