“I will be a mother then. Pretty magistrate, read the line. Again.”
“Mark the god butcher, for he marks the killer of kings.”
“Stop.”
I look at them. They not going to catch it. And this no longer feel like a game.
“Still sounds like your little boy is a prophesied assassin to kill the King, which is treason,” Mossi say.
“No. Killer of kings mean killer of the depraved line, rejected by the gods, under the influence of demigod getting his power from other gods. No, I don’t have time to make all that clear. This is what you need to know. The boy not here to kill the King.”
I pause. You really want to take them there, ask the voice that sound like me. Go down that road and nobody coming back.
“He, that little boy, is the King,” I say.
Both of them back away, almost staggering, drunk on sudden truth. Then I tell them to sit down, for this day just starting. I tell them about Kwash Dara, Princess Lissisolo, the murders, the banishment, the plot to get her married and produce another heir, hiding the boy, losing the boy, and Basu Fumanguru. Is near evening when I finish.
“Why not tell us this from the beginning?”
“You all working for money. Greater money might be in killing him than saving him.”
“The only true killer among us is you, Moon Witch,” the Tracker say. I don’t say anything.
“How come this Aesi doesn’t use these doors?” Mossi ask.
“The one sharing secrets with him should ask.”
“From idiots to traitors in just one day. My own speed is making me dizzy. Yet you trusted a prince to a woman who sold him as soon as she had the chance. You don’t even need traitors,” the Tracker say.
“Her husband do the deed. And Bunshi was the one doing all the trusting.”
“But who has the boy?” Mossi ask.
“So there is one of you who don’t care about royal intrigue,” Ikede say and enter the room. “Even you, Sogolon, forgetting that to save the boy from the Aesi, first you have to save him from those who drink blood. And he might not want to be saved.”
“I know they’re using the ten and nine doors, another thing this witch didn’t tell us.”
“Bunshi,” I say.
“Whatever.”
“My head is already spinning from king, princes, and plots. Which they is this now?” Mossi ask.
“I know of two by name. Two are Eloko, grass demons. But he too wild to be the leader. And too stupid. An Ipundulu among their number,” I say.
“Lightning bird,” whispered the old man. “You find his witch?”
“A masterless one.”
“Dear lords of sky, what you bring on us? Dear lords of sky, an Ishologu.”
He curse under his breath and head to the window. A weight drop on him and the whole room. “Lightning bird, lightning bird, woman beware of the lightning bird,” he say.
“You about to give us song, brother?” I say but he frown.
“I talking ’bout the lightning bird. Talk is just talk,” Ikede say.
“And song is how you talk,” I say.
“Way of song long gone, Sogolon. Singer man don’t sing songs no more.”
“Just because you not writing down deeds don’t mean you stop singing. How you keep to memory what the world tell you to forget?”
“Maybe I want to forget! You ever think that?”
“Southern griots speak the truth of the King since before Kagar. If it wasn’t for you we wouldn’t know that the King supposed to descend from sister, not brother. If not for you preserving memory none of us would be in this room. If not for you, well . . .”
Ikede nod, knowing what I couldn’t finish.
“Southern griots gone the way of witches, Sogolon. You know what I mean,” he say.
The old man pull away a stack of rugs and uncover a buried kora.
“Kwash Aduware, this King’s grandfather, six of we his soldiers discover. That King, he kill them all. You want to know if he kill them quick? No is your answer. No. Sogolon, remember Babuta? Maybe you never know him. Babuta, son of Babuta. One night he come where six of us gather with proclamations heavy on his chest. Enough with hiding in caves for no reason, we sing the true story of kings! Then he recite one long poem about the purpose of truth that I don’t remember. Babuta say he know a man in the court of the Kwash Aduware who serve the King but loyal to the truth. The man say the King come into knowledge of us since he have belly walkers on the ground and pigeons in the sky. So gather your griots and set eyes for Kongor, for they can live safe among the books in the House of Records. For the age of the voice is over and we in the age of the written mark. The word on stone, the word on parchment, the word on cloth, the word that is even greater than the glyph, for the word provoke a sound in the mouth. And once in Kongor, let men of writing save words from lips and in that way the griot may die, but never the word. He sell it to us as such a wonderful thing. Sanctuary for the southern griots at least, whose only crime was that to power we speak true. We will no longer live like dogs, this is what Babuta say. Hear this, for he say this also. That when the pigeon land at the mouth of this cave, in the evening two days from now, take the note from its right foot and follow whatever it say. Do you know who the pigeon in service to? Sogolon know. Babuta, mark whatever occur with great care, but none of that ever stop him from being a total fool. I tell him, Read the songs of your fathers. People in the King’s court only a fool would trust. And he say, Go lick a wild dog’s koo for calling me a fool, and leave if you don’t want to stay. So I leave. Nobody ever see them men again. Same thing come to pass in nearly every other cave. So there be no southern griot. There be me.”
“You not the last.”
“I the last you going see.”
“The day passing and running, old man. Tell them about the lightning bird. And who travel with him.”
“You see how they work.”
“So have you.”
“Fuck the living gods, will one of you tell us the story?” Mossi say. He was on the floor, head raised like a dog, almost smiling, for he will have this tale. The griot take the stool and begin.
“A wicked word come from the West, two quartermoons previous. A village right by the Red Lake.”
“The last word I hear was that they leave the Hills of Enchantment for Nigiki. They cross the river already?” I ask.
“This is what come by talking drum. People come across a hut in a village above the Blood Swamp, but below the Red Lake. All around the hut death is stinking, but the foulness coming from dead cows and goats not the people and yes, they dead. The fisherman, his first wife and second wife, and three sons, but none of them stinking, oh. You couldn’t even call it rot. How to describe a sight strange even to the gods? Skin like tree bark. Like the blood, the flesh, the humors, the rivers of life, something suck it all out. The first and second wife, both of them with their chest cut open and they heart done rip out. But not before he bite them all over the neck and leaving his dead seed to grow decay in them. And now you saying he don’t answer to no witch.”