“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.
Sogolon walk along a covered pathway when a scrambling along the ceiling start to follow her. A gasp leave her mouth, and she try to walk faster. Not run, for running would mean that whatever is behind her is real. But the scrambling on the ceiling getting closer and chilling her so hard that she shudder. Running ahead of the scuttle is the shriek. Sogolon run to the library doors, looking up once to see the darkchild catching up to her, then hopping ahead. If only she could get to the doors. Nothing about the library ever say it was safe, but if she could only get to the door. The boy with red ochre skin hop onto the path and spread his fingers, each popping a claw as long as the whole hand.
Then they stop. They don’t just halt moving, they halt everything. The red ochre boy, who raise his right foot to run, still have the right foot off the ground, the left foot on his toes and ready to pounce, both arms open and his smile wicked, wide and stiff. The darkchild in a crouch, but he don’t move either. Now footsteps is coming behind her.
“If you’re not frightened yet, make no sense to be frightened now,” he say. The Aesi. “Where you head?”
“The library.”
“Why?”
“A book.”
“You can read?”
“No.”
He walk a few paces ahead of her before he stop.
“Hope you are a better reader than liar. Come then, come get your book.”
As she pass the red ochre boy she shudder again. He don’t move, not at all.
“What you do to them?” Sogolon ask.
“Why you think it’s me?” the Aesi ask.
“I don’t think it.”
The Aesi laugh as he stop at the doorway.
“The blue scrolls will bore you. All this stuff about politics and money.”