Moon Witch, Spider King, page 21
Escorts, guards, horsemen, knights, and servants all leave their beasts by the guardhouse, for this is not a place for people of the court. But several times some disembark in the stable and not the guardhouse. Men and women who didn’t earn the grace to be in the radiance of the soon-to-be King. Sogolon watch in hiding on high, and hear their grumbling, their disagreement, and their blasphemy. Two cousins dressed like monks who not happy one bit about this horrible banishment, but already see some new virgin at court to sink their cock into. A brother of a cousin of an uncle who nine generations before try to seize the throne from the house of Akum and now live in inglorious banishment in the Purple City. A prince on a chariot who is magnificent because he say that he is magnificent and will see title now that a new King with sense will sit on the throne. Another cousin who is thinking that this invitation means a restoration of favor until he hear that his horses are to take him to the stable and not the throne room. Four men and three women who grumble and cuss that the family of the Kwash Kagar’s wife should be at the side of the throne, not here with the field mice. A blacksmith who joke with the stable hands that he don’t know why he is here, but hear that the first ruler from the house of the Akum is called the Blacksmith King.
Around noon Sogolon hear wings flap and a wind, cold and quick. She is rubbing the neck of a black horse when he step in alone. The Aesi. The urges to slip away and to stand firm both come over her. He halt when he see her, surprised she is in the stables. This is what you come to? he seem to ask but don’t.
“That one will do,” he say. She step out of his way.
“The gods don’t look down on honest work, young Sogolon,” he say.
This is not my work. It coming to her mouth, she can feel it in her mouth, ready to leave, but it don’t.
“A saddle, girl.”
That is not her work. The saddle in her hands before she think better of it and he watch her saddle the horse. Before he mount, the Aesi stop and grab Sogolon by the cheek, not hard, but firm. She grab his hands and struggle, but he is a rock. He stare at her and she stare back, even with her mind wanting to do something else. The Aesi is on his horse and out the gate before she realize he let go. And still a while after before she stop feeling his grip on her face. Little after that a headache hit her so hard that she collapse in a pile of hay. She press her temples but the pain is throbbing from her forehead as if some demon is forcing his way out. She crawl over to the nearest wood post and bang her forehead against it until her mind go dark.
* * *
—
Sogolon tell herself that nobody would permit her to the ceremony, so she should be neither angry nor sad. And when it do come to pass that nobody take notice of her, Sogolon tell herself over and over to be neither. And over and over she repeat it until the thought become words, and the words become fierce, so fierce that when she grab a bowl full of water and fling it against the wall and it shatter with a crash that rile up the horses, two stable boys rush back in shouting where is the fire. Instead they scowl at the girl, for they know she is there by royal order, but also that she have no business in this place.
At least she can ride a horse, is what she want to say. Indeed, she should just grab any horse and put distance between herself and Fasisi, for it was never her choice to come, nor is it her wish to stay. And the princess say to more people than her that she is not a slave. But if she can’t move of her own free will and she is not a slave, then she must be a prisoner. But girl, all your life you been bound to something or by someone. Chains been on you so long that you believe the shackle is part of your neck. Maybe Keme did come around to free you, say a voice that sound like her. She would rather just see him naked, to speak truth. To look at him rather than to want from him. Him walking to her naked with a slow stride. His broad smile, and sweaty shoulders, and head with a helmet on. Off. Blocking cock with his shield then not blocking it, his chest catching sun, his bare legs about to leap off the banks into the river. Sogolon thinking to stop herself, but stop is just a word from her mouth, or a mark on Olu’s floor, not something to do. He marching across her mind.
No, he is on horse and marching past her door. The horse and him almost one, for they wearing the same robes. The horse draped in that white and gold. A strip running from mouth to ear and a gold headpiece above that, and the rest of the fabric wrapping his neck, covering all the way to his tail, and as long as his ankles. At the ankle, stripes of gold and white with shiny diamonds. Keme, the same in white and gold stripes under a full suit of chain mail, his helmet in white silver and so broad and high that it rest on his shoulders and reach down to his chest. She watch as the procession swallow him up.
Sogolon run. Out into the courtyard, down the trail still dusty from marching soldiers. She hear the far-off rumble outside of the procession long gone and as she come to the grand gate and guardhouse, notice that nobody is there but sentries stationed at the gate and the battlements. She at the slot to let herself out when guards begin to open the gate. Four men approach carrying a covered palanquin and as they pass Sogolon, stop. She pull the curtains apart and stick her head out. She, Queen Wutu, last wife of Kwash Kagar. Sogolon mark how she don’t look much older than her, just a girl under the burden of so much gold jewelry. Her face still round, her cheeks still full, but her eyes tired.
“I don’t know you,” she say.
“Your Excellency,” Sogolon say and kneel quick.
“No. Not anymore. Not by the time the day go out. Then I just a woman.”
Queen Wutu tap the handrail and the men lower the palanquin to the ground. The Queen point to the wide seat.
“Let us be women together, then,” she say and she bid Sogolon to climb in.
“I smell like a horse, Excellency,” she say.
“The only beast in this compound that I can stand,” she say.
The men take lesser-known roads and reach the city center before the procession. Sogolon expect the Queen to leave the palanquin, but she stay within, pulling back a curtain to see outside, while unseen in the shade. From there they see the platform, covered in red velvet, leopard skin, and zebra skin, while seven elders stand on the platform chanting and singing and burning sacred herbs. One elder brush his large feather broom over the stool in the center of the platform, and another drape it in leather skin.
“Ceremony of the leopard skin is here,” the Queen say. “Then one ceremony of the bark cloth, down in the Baganda district, one for the calfskin in the blacksmith’s row, and the crowning on his father’s throne before they burn it.”
Drums and horns move in close, while kora and lute follow. Then dancers, not in masks but wearing talismans on arms, elbows, neck, and waist, and spinning in mushrooming pantaloons that fill up with air and lift them off the ground to land slow. The dancers leap higher and spin faster, clearing the way of dust and spirits. Following them, soldiers in ceremonial armor, red chain mail for the troop on the left, green for the troop on the right. They split and march around both sides of the platform. Taking their place at the side of the platform too, the princess and consort, and Prince Likud’s twin boys. And others close in blood to the house of Akum. The drums stop thundering, but the horns continue to blow.
Two fetish priests, both painted blue, lead the way, chanting and throwing smoke, and then it is him, Prince Likud, in a silent march wearing nothing but palm oil. He stand at the foot of the steps, straight and looking ahead, his skin dark like burnt wood and shiny. The prince is a tall and strong-looking man, but he is thin and women of the court seeking to be concubines make promises aloud to nobody that they will fatten him up soon. Beside the twins is a woman Sogolon never see before, but who she is guessing is his wife, soon to be Queen. Two of the elders, both in headdresses of feathers and gold, take the prince by both hands and shout that he is no prince, no father, no son, no one. No prince, no father, no son, no one, until he is right before the stool draped in leopard skin. Then they speak for long in a tongue Sogolon don’t know.
“The tongue of priests, kings, and gods,” Queen Wutu whisper. “Only they know how to speak it. None of them ever teach it to me.”
Sogolon don’t think to say nothing to her, for until this prince is crowned she is sitting beside a Queen. Sitting so close that their arms touch, and this Queen don’t seem to notice. Let us be women together, she did say, but Sogolon can’t take those words to mean anything.
“Sword-bearers, soldiers, guards, soul washers, drummers, horn blowers, umbrella men, priests, chiefs, kings of the lower lands, none of them come to see me marry the King,” the Queen say.
The two elders, still holding Prince Likud’s arms, turn him around to sit on the stool. The drummers, hundreds of them, beat harder and faster, making the ground shake and waking up the gods of the underworld and the spirits of the land, while the horn blowers blow loud enough to reach gods of sky.
“He is incomplete until he sit on the stool, they saying,” Queen Wutu say, even though she say before that she don’t understand their tongue.
The dancers in mushroom pantaloons spin and spin until they lift off the ground again. Prince Likud close his eyes and the elders guide him to the stool. Another elder standing behind the stool, remove the leopard skin and hold it up. The elders release the prince, for he must by himself sit, with the mystic coolness that every wise and strong king must have. He must not hesitate or falter, and he must resist the urge to wave his hand behind him to make sure it is there. Prince Likud sit in one movement. The drums and horns stop. The people cheer, chant, and sing, and the drums and horns return. The elder holding the leopard skin drape it over the prince’s shoulders. Mystic coolness. The prince’s face show nothing.
“Not a king, not yet,” Queen Wutu say.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“If you want to follow to the Baganda district, don’t let me stop you. But I go back to the palace until I am no longer Queen. You wish to go?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“Like me, you done see enough.”
They wait for the prince, now wearing leopard skin, to leave the platform with the elders. As soon as the family leave, Queen Wutu tap the handrail.
* * *
—
The prince return to the royal enclosure as King, under the new name Kwash Moki, meaning he who will still the winds. Princess Emini return as the King Sister, but for that there is no crown. Sogolon return to her bed of rugs and hay. In half sleep her mind run on the twins, on how they are crown princes now, and all she can hope for is that they long forget her, or they gone past bored with seeking revenge on a bush girl. Celebrations for the new King go on for three quartermoons, with the stable overflowing, emptying, then overflowing again with people and beasts. Sometimes the feasting get so large that it spill into the stalls, with drunk men and loud women eating and drinking on the grounds, and tossing meat, bread, and wine. More often than not Sogolon wake up to the sound coming from a dim corner of fucking; men, women fucking whoever in the dark. Royal inside commoner. Priest atop sorcerer. Friend astride foe. Chief and girl who don’t want his cock. And then there would be feasting again, or the departure of somebody whom this new King and kingdom has left most bitter. The stable keepers, when they get used to her, start to supply Sogolon with food. Before the celebrations end, Sogolon start grooming the horses to earn her stay.
Nobody from the King Sister’s palace ever come for her again.
NINE
Bobo, the white one. He is the one she talk to when the hands take leave and the stable is empty, except that the stable is never empty. More nights than not it fill with the most agreeable beasts in the whole kingdom, more pleasant than any man she ever meet. Will ever meet, say a voice that sound like her. She lose count of how many quartermoons back she realize that this is the most agreeable place she ever stay. And horses the most agreeable company. If horse could shapeshift like lions, then maybe that person would be the perfect friend, or maybe all that is man would ruin all that is horse. She talk to all the horses as she feed and clean them. But Bobo, the white horse with the black patch on his left eye, is the one who listen. Sometimes he reply. Talk of people he don’t find to his liking rile him up, especially Keme, maybe because Bobo is male too, and he don’t want to hear of anybody else when she brushing his hair. But she would ask him a question like, Should I present myself to the King Sister even though she don’t ask for me, and he will shake his head fierce. A strong no.
“Because she don’t want me to come, or you don’t want me to go?”
He whinny and swish his tail as an answer. She feed him hay and, when the stable hands leave, sugar. It is enough to make Sidiki, the horse in the next stall, jealous. He kick the back wall, threatening to bust through the stable itself unless she give him some sugar too. Demanding, these horses. But their demands feel simple, and simple is perfect for a girl reducing herself. The girl was once in the termite house, but that girl is looking for a way out. A way higher than the dirt her brothers stomp her down into. Now see the girl who wake up for the horses, who mark a day’s passing through which horses leave and which horses come back, who eat two times a day, who wash once a quartermoon if she feel to, who take notice of no one, and even when she do, don’t listen, and even when she hear, don’t care, who then go to sleep in fresh hay to wake up and do it again. And if she do visit the dream jungle, she forget as soon as the sun come up. Dreams that she remember, she tell to Bobo, who whistle, neigh, whinny, or just nod and rub his head against her when he sensing sadness.
“No, the lioness with no belly don’t come back. Different dream this time,” she say. “Near all of it gone, Bobo. My mind don’t want to remember it. Maybe I dream I dead. Or maybe I dream blasphemy.”
The horse swish his tail.
Time is the cobra, coiling and coiling. She feeling it in the stable, even as the stable give her peace. It is a moon and a half since Kwash Moki made King. Night it is now, and the first time she leaving the stable in a while, so she take a small oil lamp and go. Sogolon know where she is going but don’t know why. Yes, you know, say the voice that sound like her. Outside, the night is shadow-blue and gray, but white stones in the paths glow. The tall, thin castle is a stick in the dark. She walk past the back door to a window.
“Commander? Commander? Olu?”
His door usually open, but she climb through the window. She almost fight with the curtains the last time, which is why she notice quick that they are all gone. All the walls and doors look strange. Sogolon hold the lamp right to the surface and see why. The writings and markings done gone. All the tapestries gone and all the rugs too. She kneel to check the floor but everywhere is clean, even under the chairs and stools, and the one rug still in the room. Olu’s bedchamber is the same, no bed, no rugs, some sheets, and the one bowl that he don’t cover in writing. No Olu. She think to search one more room, but he is gone. Or taken. Or vanish into the air. Or something else. It make her . . . angry is not the word, for she also sad and afraid. And lonely, something that stay behind her in the stable but lap around her now. Leave is what she must do, leave now. Leave the way she come. She try to push herself up to the window but the planks right by the wall wobble. She feel along the edge of the wood until it pull free. Words frantic but clear on the underside of the wood. Sogolon set herself to climb through the window when faint voices come upon her. Guards. She blow out the lamp and wait until they pass.
Back in the stable, and under more light, the writing on the plank tell her too much and not enough.
This King is coming . . . own alone . . .
and the Aesi . . . Gods know why
Jeleza, Jeleza, Jeleza
She read it five times before she notice that he write the words in blood.
* * *
—
Everything she would want to know about the happenings of court Sogolon learn from the movement of horses. A white horse for Queen Mother Wutu, dressed in blue and gold finery for a quick wedding ceremony, and given that is only one horse, a quiet one. Three horses from Wakadishu that leave the same night with riders hissing and cursing. One moon later, two horses from Wakadishu and two riders who didn’t come back. A horse late at night for a knight who the headwoman see off with harsh whispers. Two young horses dead from slashes and stabs up down and crossway, horses stolen out in the morning by three who walk with the twin princes. A horse long gone to Kalindar many moons ago just coming back. And a black horse that she rest and prepare for two nights’ ride, for the Aesi, alone. A horse for climbing mountains, is the only request he send, and the only mountain two nights away have Mantha sitting on top. Many horses leaving that don’t come back. One gone in finery, only for somebody to bring back the horse the next afternoon and tell her to take off everything of gold before the horse leave again. A mule leaving buckling under salt, another arriving buckling under gold. Chariots for the princes.
The problem with a simple life is that the repetition is endless. The same every day is making Sogolon bored. Not every boredom is the same, but what kind of living is this where she can tell the many boredoms apart? She remember that time before, when she meet Olu on the way to the library even though there is no tongue she could read. But now she read a little. The library is a farther walk from the stable. Olu would read a book in a day and forget it by the following dusk. She don’t know enough words to read a book in a day, but love the idea of forgetting. And beginning again. Maybe she will walk in with a stern face, and the book master will leave her alone as she grab a scroll, or something bound in leather.
