“How me wrong?”
“About me being the boy-fucker. Most time is the boys who fuck me. Hark, but there was this one, best in many a moon, so tight believe you me I has to stuff a corncob up to ease the hole. Then I ate the corn.”
“Me chop off your bolo first, and then your head, then throw the rest of you in the river. How you liking that? And when you parts flow down de river, people going say luku laka pon the boy-fucker shoga rolling down in the river, don’t drink from the river lest you become boy-fucker too.”
“Chop me with those axes? I have been looking for iron as fine as such. Forged by a Wakadishu blacksmith or did you steal them from a butcher’s wife?”
“Drop the knife.”
I looked at this man, not much taller than a boy, confusing stout with muscular and dashing shit on my quiet morning. I dropped the dagger in my hand and the one strapped to my leg.
“I would love to greet this sun and bid it good-bye without killing a man,” I said. “There are some people above the sand sea who have a feast every year where they leave a space empty for a ghost, a man who was once alive.”
He laughed, pointing the club at me with his left hand, and pulling an ax with his right. Then he dropped the club and pulled out the left ax.
“Maybe me should be doing the killing for you mad tongue, and not you perverse ways.”
He waved his axes in front of me, swinging and swirling them, but I did not move. The mercenary stepped forward just as a wad of something hit the back of his neck.
“Aunt of a donkey!”
He swung around just as the buffalo snorted again, and nose juice hit the warrior in the face. Eye-to-eye with the buffalo, he jumped. Before he could swing an ax, the buffalo scooped up the warrior with his horns and threw him off far into the grass. One ax landed in the field. The other came straight at me but bounced off. I cursed the buffalo. It was some time before the warrior sat up, shook his head, rose to his feet, and staggered off when the buffalo rushed him again.
“You took your time. I could have made bread.”
He trotted off and slapped me with his tail as he passed. I laughed and picked up my new axes.
The house had woken up by the time I got back. The buffalo stooped in the grass and sunk his head on the ground. I said he was as lazy as an old grandmother and he swished his tail at me. In a corner near the center doorway sat Sogolon, and a man I assumed was the lord of the house. Bisabol blew out of him, expensive perfume from lands above the sand sea. A white wrap around his head and under his chin, thin enough that I could see his skin. A white gown with a pattern of the millet plant, and over that a coat, coffee dark.
“Where is the girl?” I asked.
“Down some street, annoying some woman, because clothes remain something that fascinates her. Truly, old friend, she never ever seen the like,” Sogolon said.
The man nodded before I realized she was not speaking to me. He took a puff of his pipe, then handed it to her. The smoke from her mouth I would have taken for a cloud, it was so thick. She had drawn six runes in the dirt with a stick and was scratching a seventh.
“And how is the Tracker managing Kongor?” he asked, though he still did not look at me. I thought he was speaking to Sogolon in that rude way men who are rich and powerful can speak about you right in front of you. Too early in the day to make men test you, I said to myself.
“He not one for the Kongori custom to cover his snake,” Sogolon said.
“Indeed. They whipped a woman … seven days ago? No, eight, it was. They found her leaving the house of a man not her husband without her outer robes.”
“What did they do with the man?” I said.
“What?”
“The man, was he whipped as well?”
The man looked at me as if I had just spoken in one of the river tongues even I don’t know.
“When do we go to the house?” I said to Sogolon.
“You didn’t go last night?”
“Not to Fumanguru’s.”
She turned away from me, but I would not be flashed off by these two.
“This grand peace is walking on a crocodile’s back, Sogolon. Is not just Kongor and is not just Seven Wings. Men who don’t fight since the Prince was just born are getting word that they must reach for armour and weapon, and assemble. Seven Wings assemble in Mitu as well, and other warriors under other names. The Malakal you left, and the Uwomowomowomowo valley, both now gleam from the iron and gold of armour, spear, and sword,” the man said.
“And ambassadors roam each city. Sweat not from heat but from worry,” she said.
“This I know. Five days ago four men from Weme Witu come for talks, for all come to Kongor to settle disputes. Nobody see them since.”
“What they disputing?”
“What they dispute? Not like you to get deaf ears to the movement of people.”
She laughed.
“Here is a true thing. Years before this skinny boy’s mother spread her koo to piss him out, right before they mark the peace on paper and iron, the South retreat back to the South.”
“Yes, yes, yes. They retreat south, but not full south,” Sogolon said.
“The old Kwash Netu give them back a bone. Wakadishu after conquering it.”
“I was just in Kalindar and Wakadishu.”
“But Wakadishu never liked that arrangement, not at all. They say Kwash Netu betray them, he sell them back to slavery under the southern King. They been bawling for years upon years and this new King—”
“Kwash Dara looking like he hear,” she said.
“And all this movement up north making the South rumble. Sogolon, word be that the mad King’s head is again infected with devils.”
This was annoying me more and more. Both were saying things the other already knew. Not even discussing, or reasoning or arguing or repeating, but finishing each other’s thoughts, like they were talking to each other but still not to me.
“Earth and sky already hear enough,” Sogolon said.
“You talk of kings and wars and rumors of war as if anybody cares. You’re just a witch, here to find a boy. As is everybody, except him,” I said, pointing to the lord. “Does he even know why we’re under his roof? See, I too can talk around a man as if he’s not there.”
“You said he have a nose, not a mouth,” the lord said.
“We waste time talking about politics,” I said, and walked past them inside.
“No one speaks to you,” Sogolon said, but I did not turn back.
Upstairs one floor, the Leopard came towards me. I couldn’t read his face, but this was a long time coming. So let us have it out, with words or fists or knives and claws, and whoever is left let him have at the boy, you to fuck him, me to beat him with a shit stick, and send him right back to whatever thing shat him out. Yes, let us have this. The Leopard ran up, almost knocking over two of the dozen statues and carvings in the hallway, and embraced me.
“Good Tracker, I feel I have not seen you in days.”
“It has been days. You couldn’t pull yourself out of sleep.”
“This is a true word. I feel as if I was sleeping for years. And I wake to such dismal rooms. Come now, what sport is there in this city?”
“Kongor? In a city pious as this even the mistresses seek marriage.”
“I already love it. Yet is there not some other reason we are here? We hunt a boy, do we not?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember and I do not.”
“You remember the Darklands?”
“We went through the Darklands?”
“You were one for harsh words.”
“Harsh? To whom? Fumeli? You know he likes when we spar. Are you not hungry? I saw a buffalo outside and thought to kill it, or at least bite off the tail, but he seems an ingenious buffalo.”
“This is very strange, Leopard.”
“Tell me at the table. What happened these few days since we left the valley?”
I told him we were gone a moon. He said that was madness and refused to hear any more.
“I hear the gap in my belly. It growls obscene,” he said.
This table was in a great hall, with plate after plate of scenes covering all the walls in the room. I got to the tenth plate before I saw that these works of the grand bronze masters all showed scenes of fucking.
“This is strange,” I said again.
“I know. I keep looking for one where the cock goes in the mouth hole or the boo hole but I couldn’t find any. But I hear this is a town of no shoga. How could that be tru—”
“No. It’s strange that you remember nothing. The Ogo remembers everything.”
The Leopard, being a Leopard, ignored the chairs and jumped up on the table, not making a sound. He grabbed the bird leg from a silver tray, crouched on his heels, and bit into it. I could tell he did not like it. Leopards eat all things, but there was no rush of blood, hot and rich, spilling into his mouth and over his lips as he bit into it, which always made him frown.
“You are the one strange, Tracker, with your riddles and half meanings. Sit, eat porridge while I eat—what is this, ostrich? I’ve never had ostrich, could never catch one. You said the Ogo is remembering?”
“Yes.”
“What does he remember? Being in the enchanted bush? I remember that.”