But now that she is out under sky from daybreak to nightfall, the way to Fasisi showing her things she never see before. The road come and go. Sometimes for a half day the road is stones cut perfect, but right after that is nothing but dirt and sand, and thornbush. The second time they come up on a stretch of old road, the escort say that this is all part of the old kingdom, long before Fasisi, long before any man yet living. They pass villages perch on hillside with small houses people build from mud and stone, with thatch roofs and no door. They pass villages that look like the people all run away or die off. At a turn with two trailways ahead, the escort shout that they will stay along the rivers, since that is the wisest way to avoid bandits. A Seven Wing say he ready for any fight, to which the escort say, So go off and fight, then. My King give me orders to bring back cargo alive and unspoiled. The mistress, listening at the window, hiss at the word, cargo, and make sure he hear. Guests, he say. They ride along the river and pass the walls of Juba, where every few lengths stand a horse with a man on it, man who dress soldierly, like the escort.
And this escort. The wingsmen cover themselves in black tunic and blue sash even on the hottest day, also hiding most of the face. This man look everything the opposite of Seven Wings. Firstly he almost all in green. A bronze and black shield that he wear on his back. Sogolon notice the blade next, a scimitar she will soon learn to use. Green chain mail, green tunic, leather sword belt, and a long flowing green cape that he wrap around himself like the mistress and her blankets. Fire-golden hair and beard, almost wild, and a thin face with thick lips looking like he grin ten times more than he scowl. And the voice, like river flow. This is not the sort of man to visit Miss Azora. Sogolon looking at his face, sharp, perhaps a little mischief hiding in that beard. Mischief? This is not the sort of man that come to whorehouse, because he would never need to. Handsome? She barely know the word or when to use it. Sometimes she blink and all she see is hair, cheekbones, and lips. And skin like coffee making peace with milk. Is the eyes that keep grinning when the rest of his face don’t, and is the grin that stay on her even when he turn back around to lead the way. They stop along the river route twice. The first to rest the horses, the second because the mistress halt the procession for they would get to Fasisi too early, which would be an irredeemable loss of face, her words. Both times he wash, when nobody else do.
“The water is best here,” he say to Sogolon as he walk to the bank. Sogolon grow up all these years taking stock of what man say and weighing it for danger.
“I not bathing,” she say.
He look at her once, with nothing in his face, not disappointment but not indifference either and say, Suit yourself. He don’t think once or twice about it and take off his clothes. Sogolon would swear to whoever ask that it look like the opposite, like the clothes take themselves off him. The men who come to Miss Azora look like men who need to come to Miss Azora, and not like the boys who win the donga. But the boys of the donga look like dark, shiny sticks with long and thin arms and legs. This escort look like his clothes commit wickedness by hiding him. Shoulders broad and chest heavy with muscle. The thin waist of a stilt walker, the thick legs of a young horse. Sogolon know she is going to think it, and want to meet the thought before it reach her head and stop it, but she fail. The cock one hope to see at the center of a body like his. Hanging over balls, thick, loose, proving nothing. He raise from the river and stretch himself at the edge, then walk a little, not to show Sogolon nothing, for he already forget that she close. But she watching a man walk as water drip away from him, and after so many years in a whorehouse she didn’t know that when a man move one way, his cock move another. Up and down, jiggle like it dancing to quicker music. In the whorehouse there is only two kind of cock, violent and limp, and neither a girl prefer to see. But the escort either don’t see her, forget she is there, or walking like this is no different from waking up, or paying for beer. Paying for beer. She wonder if this is always with her, body shame. Can’t be, for that is not the people she come from. Curse this whorehouse that give her something she would never expect from such a place. Modesty. Sogolon stringing together thoughts in her head that don’t make no sense. He stand and stretch his arms out like he saluting the leaving sun.
“So Sogolon,” he say and the girl jump out of herself. “Not so, your name?”
“So indeed my name be,” she say. Turning her whole head away from him, and wondering where this turning coming from. He don’t turn around to see her. But his buttocks, big and darker, look like they are all that is holding wayward arms and feet and back together.
“You plan to ride this horse, or you fine with this horse riding you?”
“What?”
The escort turn around, his back to the sun. The water can’t even bear to leave his skin. Look at it trying to stay on him a little longer. Sogolon don’t know who doing this kind of thinking but say out loud, Hark, you need to stop it. He is coming to her, what is that he say? Coming to her, and she can’t look up to his face, but looking down not better for now she gone past between two nipples and roll up and down the washboard that midway, erupt with hair that roll down and down and down.
“You want to ride?” he say.
Sogolon is a stick now. She is a stick.
“We carry another saddle in the back. Strap it onto the horse, then strap you in it. The saddle, not the horse. A girl should know how to ride a horse, do you not think so?”
“I don’t know.”
“Never know when you might need to get away. Horse feet faster than your own.” He smile again. She think he is going to get the saddle right now. Teach her right now. Grip her in his mighty hands and place her on the horse, as if she weigh as much as a reed.
“Tomorrow,” he say and walk to his clothes.
And so, Fasisi.
FOUR