The Prophets(58)

Here is what she did not know:

She did not know that far beyond the green mountains where the lightning frightens, but does not strike, hundreds more of Brother Gabriel’s kind were making their way from the sea, emerging from great hollow beasts whose bellies craved only the darkest of flesh, dredging through seaweed until they met the unwelcoming rock of shore, armed with weapons that pulled the very thunder out of the sky. A journey so long that it was almost forgivable that their appetites were so ravenous and undiscerning.

She did not know that they would devour not just her own people but would wolf down many other tribes as well. Friendly tribe or hostile tribe, these greedy people would not discriminate, could not, in fact, discriminate. To them, her people were all living pieces of ore: fuel for engines of the most ungodly kind but, bafflingly, in the name of a god that they claimed was peaceful. A lamb, they said. She could not know that was merely a costume.

She did not know of what Brother Gabriel’s people were capable, nor did she know what had already become of the Gussu village or why Obosye—who was instructed that if the three demons didn’t return safe and sound within an allotted time frame, his children, even the newborn baby boy, would endure unimaginable suffering in his names—colluded in this deception. No seer, not even Semjula, could have given her an ominous enough warning. No Kosongo elder magic or ancestral intervention could turn a woman into an animal, but these Portuguese, she would soon discover, had access to all manner of craft that was remarkably tailored for performing just such a feat.

She did not know that she would not even live to see her children stuffed, like parcels, into these ghosts’ vessels, nor would she ever know that in their desperation, one would leap and others, chained together, would follow, crashing into the unfathomable gray like a string of ceremonial beads. Her daughter’s children, whose skin would be unrecognizable to her, would live to suffer at the hands of beasts: never to be embraced or loved, merely used to satisfy whims or serve as a receptacle for burdens, forever and ever, à??. No. She could not foresee that her rage at seeing her firstborn chained, and Kosii and Elewa in a death stance to free her, would cast her spear-first into battle. She would take down so many—so many of the undead would fall prey to her fearsome heart and her uncanny aim—before a coward would creep from behind, so as not to see her eyes, and unleash a thunderclap deep into her spine. Who would ever imagine that the last thing she would see was Kosii and Elewa wresting the chains from the invaders so that the king’s eldest daughter could run free, only to have new chains wrapped around their own necks?

She did not know that she would not get to hear the skinless curse one another because they wanted to take her alive, but in all her glory she denied them the chance to desecrate her with future abuses, ones that she would have had to be living—and screaming—for them to gratify. Instead, she, unbeknownst to her, would only give them eternal silence, which was, in its way, victory. In the spite of their defeat, they would ravage her children instead, to whom she could offer no solace. But the not knowing, here, would be a wondrous thing. King or not, what mother should live to see her children spiked and mounted?

A tumult would be born of this, of such force that the land would never recuperate. There would be valiant wars fought on the king’s behalf, by the other tribes who respected her honesty and giving, once they discovered the coming plague and the treachery that permitted its spreading. But it would be to no avail. Where peace was once possible, there would be centuries of bloodshed and pestilence, and the earth itself would be robbed of its natural belongings and, thus, continually reject the children it could no longer identify.

She did not know. Could not know. Should not know.

King Akusa nestled next to Ketwa, pulling Nbinga over with her. The last thing these demons should see of her village was what huge adoration looked like, given how apparently puny their own was.

“Where are the children, beloved?” she asked Nbinga.

“There.” Nbinga pointed toward the entrance. And there, King Akusa could see her children dancing—two who looked so much like Ketwa that she could not remember if she had given birth to them or if Nbinga had, or both.

She looked at the Gussu and the three demons beside him. Then she looked down at their bowls, empty again so soon. People who liked her food so thoroughly couldn’t be so horrible. She never considered that perhaps they were only hungry.

“Eat,” she said. “There is plenty.”

The Gussu reached first and the others followed. King Akusa smiled and raised her cup.

“To guardians,” she said loudly.

“To guardians,” said everyone except the demons.

Then the king put the cup to her lips and drank.





Timothy

There was too much red in the face. Timothy would have to compensate with yellow and perhaps just a drop of black. But he managed to capture the unusual expression, something between curiosity and—what was that? Disgust? The subtle tilt of the head, the slight curl of the lip. A smile and a snarl. And the hair like a dark and jagged sun rising from behind. Isaiah was the perfect specimen.

Timothy’s father, Paul, seemed to understand the need to document them, though he chose other, more private methods. While Paul would show Timothy’s paintings to everyone who visited the plantation, beaming with pride at the startling skill displayed in each stroke, he forbade Timothy from hanging them anywhere in the house. “The niggers would get the wrong idea,” he said.